


When A Man Is Wrong

by PlantsAreNeat



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Depression, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Sex, Eventual Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Not Rosie but cases mention it, POV John Watson, Past Child Abuse, S4 fix-it, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-03-04 21:54:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 67,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13373820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlantsAreNeat/pseuds/PlantsAreNeat
Summary: Ignores The Final Problem, so no Eurus or any of that; I had no idea how to tackle it. :)After the events of The Lying Detective, John and Sherlock attempt to rebuild their friendship, and John struggles with life as a single father. He discovers he is not fully in control of his anger and behavior, and spirals into depression. Follows John through this dark period, and through the healing process he needs to make both for himself and for Sherlock, who has stood by him throughout.*Trigger Warning: pretty graphic depiction of deep depression and suicidal thoughts, including a (non-successful) attempt. Later part of the story follows a hospitalization and healing process coupled with developing/realized romance. Please take care of yourself, dear reader; if this subject is triggering for you, choose another story!*Edited to add: If you find yourself thinking like John in this story, hear me now: depression tells you the world would be a better place without you in it. DEPRESSION LIES. Please talk to someone about your feelings - a counselor, therapist, or friend. If talking to someone you know is not okay for you, try the US suicide prevention hotline, as of this writing at 800-273-8255.





	1. There's Nothing When You Fall Alone

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'd or Brit-picked - I'm American (as is my spelling), so comments and corrections gladly accepted, and likely obsessively answered. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson are creations of Arthur Conan Doyle; their updated counterparts belong to Stephen Moffat and Mark Gatiss and the BBC. I receive only writing practice (and hopefully kudos) for this effort.
> 
> Inspired by (and chapter titles taken from) ["When A Man Is Wrong"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rFwl4FuwY9Q) by Seal, especially the closing lines:  
> When a man is wrong  
> Facing all the mistakes that he's done  
> When a man, when this man is wrong  
> There can be no right  
> There can be no right
> 
> This black-or-white interpretation of one's actions, the denial that redemption is possible, spoke to what I experienced myself when severely depressed (though not actively suicidal, thank Bob). It seemed natural to consider that John's OOC actions in S4 might stem from intense depression and grief and a history of past abuse; he’s had an incredibly difficult couple of years without much respite, aside from a brief period of “Mary is here and it’s pretty okay.” And then Sherlock comes back and snarls up his head again, Mary blows his worldview out of the water, and everything goes fully pear-shaped. And while I don’t want to excuse John, I do want to try to redeem him. And I need to see him come to a realization that he’s been acting in ways influenced by his depression and his past, but that he still needs to take responsibility for it. That he owes it to Sherlock to heal himself, and thereby heal them both.

“Mrph... wha time ‘sit?” John rolled over in his bed, squinting at the red digits on the nightstand. 3:09 AM glowed indifferently back at him. He had become much too familiar with this time of night since Mary died.

From the dresser, a baby monitor emitted tinny-sounding wails, while the real thing could be heard echoing down the hallway. John threw back the covers and shrugged into his dressing gown and slippers. He trudged down the hall like a zombie to soothe his fractious child back to sleep.

_God, I’m so tired._

_~~~oOo~~~_

John wearily tipped a dash of milk into his tea, took a sip (too hot!) and scooped another tiny spoonful of the colorless rice cereal out of the bowl, offering it to Rosie. She clamped her rosebud mouth firmly shut and, looking at John all the while, evaded all his attempts to feed her the smooth pap.

“Come on, my girl, I know it’s not the most delicious stuff in the world, but it’s what’s for breakfast,” he cajoled, giving her a wide-eyed, open-your-mouth-like-I-am expression in hopes that she would at least laugh and he could push some of the cereal in that way. At last, she opened her mouth, and in it went.

Immediately, back it came - Rosie pushed the cereal out of her mouth and down her chest with an indignant squawk, spraying particles of the bland cereal out over the tabletop. John watched some of it land in his tea and his jaw tightened.

“Rosie,” he said firmly, “this is your breakfast, and you need to eat it.” He wiped up the mess, and fished the floaters from his tea with his finger, flicking them into the sink. Rosie’s gaze stayed fixed on his face as he did so; her chubby features seemed to take on a faintly sly cast. He scooped up another spoonful and held it out to her. She clamped her little lips closed, staring at him all the while. John’s brows lowered with his rising frustration.

“Rosie,” he said, “open up.” She refused. He held out the spoon and waited. “Rosie... Open. Up.” Her wide eyes watched him, and she smiled faintly. Still she refused, mouth tightly shut, staring at him in brazen refusal. John’s own jaw tightened at her defiance, and he pressed the spoon to her lips, to force the food into her mouth. She turned her head to the side and her face screwed up in preparation of a wail.

“Goddammit, Rosie!” He burst out, slamming the spoon down on the table, looming over her in a sudden rage, “just eat the fucking cereal!” His hand pulled back, palm open to swing down for a slap, when he froze. _I’m about to_ _hit_ _her._

John staggered back to the other side of the table, anger full in him with nowhere to go. He lunged for the bowl of cereal and hurled it at the cupboards, the plastic bouncing and leaving a splatter of wet paste. Still seething, he seized his mug and sent it following, tea spraying everywhere and ceramic shattering, then stood, breathing hard, hearing his baby screaming in fear and distress. _Look what you’ve done now,_ he thought, and sank to the floor as his knees weakened.

He dropped his head into his hands, listening to Rosie’s cries, but leadenly unable to move to address them. _Some father you are, Watson. She’s terrified, and with good reason. For god’s sake, man, she’s not even a year old yet! She’s not defiant, she_ _can’t_ _be. You almost hit her for not being hungry - for not liking some bloody cereal!_

John rubbed his face, then stood back up. _Just get through this,_ he thought. _Get it together. You’re her father._

He took Rosie out of her highchair, and soothed her against his shoulder until she quieted. Some part of John watched himself go through the motions, calming his child, returning her to the chair and giving her a colorful plastic spatula to bang against the table while he cleaned up the spilled cereal and tea. He moved on autopilot, peeling half a banana and mashing it smooth, then giving it to Rosie by the spoonful; she was much more enthusiastic about this offering and opened for each bite with a little ‘ah!’ of enjoyment.

Absently, he wiped her face after the bowl was empty, prepared her a bottle of formula, and took her to the sofa to drink it until she fell asleep, then walked her down the hall. He put his daughter down in her cot and covered her with a light blanket, then stood there, his thousand-yard stare never changing.

In his mind, thoughts tumbled, so many that it sounded like a crowd; _you’re a terrible father, look what you almost did. Rosie deserves better. Better than a bloody fucked-up, broken piece of shit like you. You’re a failure._

_She’d be better off with anyone else than you._

_~~~oOo~~~_

Whatever the woman John had known as Mary Watson had done before he met her, he had to acknowledge that she did a good job of providing for her family. After her death, he had received an envelope full of information regarding certain bank accounts; incredibly full bank accounts, as it happened. John assumed Mary would have tapped these accounts when she needed to while she was alive; in death she made sure the funds were available to take care of Rosie. He and Rosie might never need to work at all, given the amount of money they had access to now. 

So, he felt justified using some of it to look for a nanny for Rosamund. He had a spare room where they could stay, and he could pay handsomely. All that was needed was to find the right candidate. He opened his laptop to begin writing an ad, then leaned his head back against the sofa behind his head.  _ God, I’m tired. _ He stared into space. 

That was how Sherlock found him, sauntering through the front door in his dark coat and wind-ruffled curls. “I’m quite sure that door was locked, Sherlock,” John said reproachfully, as his friend hung up his coat in the hall and flopped next to John on the sofa. 

“Just keeping my hand in, John.” Sherlock replied, then in casual disregard for his carefully pressed trousers, slipped from the sofa to the floor to pull Rosie, who had been quietly manipulating colorful wooden blocks, into his lap. “Hello, Watson,” he rumbled softly, “and how are we today?” John’s eyelid twitched at Sherlock’s choice of pet name for the girl, but he couldn’t help but smile at how carefully Sherlock was easing into comfort with interacting with his daughter. 

His best friend had been spending as much time as he could with John and Rosie, after the Culverton Smith business was done, determined to restore their friendship which had suffered so much after Mary’s death.  _ And whose fault is that, hmm? _ Sherlock looked better today, mostly recovered from the damage he had subjected himself to in his misguided belief that he was somehow helping John. He was still thinner than the doctor in John liked, but improving, and none of the telltale signs of drug use were to be seen. Sherlock was once again the composed, elegant Consulting Detective John had first met years ago in a lab at St. Bart’s. 

Well, as composed as he can be with a baby gripping his fringe in a chubby fist and shrieking with laughter. Sherlock bravely tried to disentangle the girl and gently scolded her - “Watson, that is attached to my head!” Rosie’s other hand waved gleefully, then also sank into the tantalizing curls and latched on tightly. John came to the rescue, pulling silky strands from her clutch and smoothing them back from the high pale forehead. The hair felt very soft; no wonder Rosie was so enthralled. 

Once he was released, Sherlock leaned his head back against the seat cushions, keeping his hair well out of reach of little hands. John plopped the girl back on the floor amongst her blocks, and regarded his friend with amusement. As if feeling the gaze, Sherlock rolled his face toward John. “What?” he said shortly, spots of color on his cheeks. 

“Nothing,” John replied after a moment, then picked up his laptop with a sigh. 

“Another blog post, then?” Sherlock inquired, returning his attention to the girl and her blocks, starting to place them in a pleasing geometric pattern on the floor in front of her. 

“No, an ad for a nanny.” 

Sherlock’s head snapped up. “A nanny? For Rosamund?”

“No, Sherlock, for me.” John rolled his eyes at his friend. “I can’t take care of her all by myself, and I don’t want to impose on my friends too much. So, yeah, a nanny.” He frowned at the laptop again. “I just... don’t know where to start.” He chewed on his lip a moment while he thought. 

“Fighting skills, I’d assume,” Sherlock said breezily.

John just looked at him until his friend cracked into a grin. 

“Or you could call Mycroft,” Sherlock mused. “His posh circles use nannies all the time, and you’d have to have him run anyone you’re considering through his systems anyway. Why not have his people find you a few candidates?” 

As much as John hated to ask Mycroft for anything, Sherlock had a point. John sighed. “Yeah, all right. D’you think he’s available now?” 

Sherlock waggled his eyebrows. “Let’s find out.” he whipped out his mobile and hit a short code. After a moment, there was a click, and Sherlock’s deep voice boomed through the room and down the line, “Brother dear, what a  _ pleasure _ .”  

Rosie threw a block at him; he dodged it expertly, never pausing in his verbal sparring with his tosser of a brother. John couldn’t help but chuckle. This was his life?  _ And what have you done to deserve it, then? _ He told that voice to shut up. 

 ~~~oOo~~~

With his usual infuriating omniscience, Mycroft had already been preparing a list of potential nannies, and had their files sent over later that day. His assistant, whose name John had never actually learned, looked up from her Blackberry long enough to smile at the baby in John’s arms and pass the folders over to Sherlock who had crowded next to John in the doorway. The lanky git snatched the folders as if they were a triple murder file and disappeared back into the flat with them, leaving John to awkwardly nod his goodbye and shut the door on whatsername. 

When he and Rosie returned to the sitting room, Sherlock had already spread the folders on the coffee table and was avidly looking at photos of all the candidates. There were five, all women, all approximately in their thirties, of varying ethnic backgrounds. Sherlock pulled aside three immediately and dropped them on the floor. “They work for Mycroft, or other agencies he has a hand in.” He huffed. “The last thing you need is a spy in your household. You’d think he’d have seen what that leads to.”    

John flinched. That cut pretty close to the bone, even for Sherlock. _You chose her,_ _though. And we have seen what comes of having a spy in the household, haven’t we?_ John chewed at his lip and tried to relax his jaw. His friend went on, too focused on the problem in front of him to have noticed John’s reaction. “Ah, now, but these two, these will be worth interviewing.” He laid out the two candidates and pulled their files from the stack. John leaned in to read over his shoulder. 

The first was Jane Harrington, born in London, age 32, finishing a PhD in Organic Chemistry at King’s College. Listed interests included gourmet cooking and yoga. Her picture looked like an advert for butter or some kind of farm product, all fresh country air, peaches and cream complexion and thick brown hair in a ponytail. He raised an eyebrow - she held a firearm permit. John looked at the other file, so did the second candidate. Hmm. 

The second was Amina Campbell, age 31, born in Karachi, Pakistan but emigrated with her family when she was younger than a year old. Parents were academics in the sciences; she held a competitive black belt in Aikido with additional training in other martial arts and was a musician; a seemingly incongruous mix of far eastern and traditional celtic styles. John glanced at her picture - she had the dusky skin tone of her Pakistani mother, but reddish hair and freckles courtesy of her Scottish father. She was striking rather than pretty, solidly muscular and she looked directly into the camera in the photo; John was reminded of some of the American servicewomen he had met in Afghanistan. He liked her already. 

“You’ll want to meet her first, I expect,” Sherlock said wryly, tapping Amina’s file. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” John asked suspiciously.

“She’s only five-foot-four,” came the deadpan reply. “Jane is almost six foot; you’d get a crick in your neck straight away. It would be like having me in the house all the time.” 

“We’ll hire Jane to be your nanny, then,” John said, cuffing his friend across the back of the head. “Prat.” 

Sherlock hissed like a scalded cat and carefully smoothed his hair back into place.

Amina was perfect, and could move in next week. John felt weak with relief when she agreed;  _ someone for Rosie to be comfortable with, if something ever happens to me,  _ he thought.  _ Not that anything will. But just in case.  _

_ ~~~oOo~~~ _

 


	2. There's Hate When You Fall By The Side

“John!” Someone was pulling at his arm, trying to tug him up off the ground. “John! That’s enough, now! He’s not going anywhere.” John’s vision was tinged red and his rage was roaring through him. _Piece of shit! I’ll kill you!_

“You. Fucking. Wanker!” he punctuated his words with punches to the suspect’s face, already bleeding and swelling. The big man John was straddling groaned and tried to plead through a split lip and cracked teeth. John struggled against the hands holding him back, dragging him off the whimpering man, who curled into a protective ball as John was hauled to his feet.

“John, stop it! He’s done!” Sherlock spun him until he was facing away from the person he had pummeled. Possibly a murderer, and definitely a criminal. The bloke had taken off running as soon as he had spotted them while ducking out the back of the seedy pub they had staked out in hopes of following him. John and Sherlock were after him in an instant, but their quarry was cagey; he had waited for them behind a skip and sucker-punched Sherlock in the stomach as he flashed around the corner in pursuit, knocking the breath out of him. The fugitive was about to put a boot in when he heard John barreling toward them, so he scarpered while his pursuers were delayed.

John had checked his wheezing friend over quickly, but the bloody prat insisted John apprehend the fellow; Sherlock would be right behind him once he’d caught his second wind.

John was in a towering fury that Sherlock had been hurt, and when he caught up to the suspect, he had brought the man down with a tackle to the legs, then jumped back to his feet to deliver a pair of punishing kicks to his back and side. It all went a little fuzzy after that, but he remembered throwing punches, knocking feeble attempts at protection aside and driving in, again and again.

John panted raggedly, looking into Sherlock’s pale, blood-smeared face and wide eyes. “All right, then?” he asked, “you’re all right?”

Sherlock nodded soberly. “You?”

“Fine,” John said, then realized his hands hurt like hell. When he looked at them, the knuckles were split and bloody, already swelling across the top. “Huh,” he mused, looking them over, then turned to look at the snivelling figure on the ground. Sherlock put a cautionary hand on his arm, just as Lestrade and several police officers arrived on the scene.

“Bloody hell, what happened to him?” Lestrade asked. “I mean, good on you catching him and all, but he’s been beaten bloody, hasn’t he?” He turned to Sherlock, then John, “well? What happened?”

“John was defending me, Lestrade,” Sherlock said smoothly. “There was a... fight.”

“A fight,” Lestrade’s tone was heavy with disbelief. He drew breath to continue when one of the officers called him over to where the fellow lay groaning, gesturing to the DI and indicating the man on the ground. Lestrade produced his mobile and made a call - emergency services; it seemed an ambulance was needed. The officers scurried around the scene like ants on a kicked anthill. John watched them dispassionately, anger still seething in him, though it was fading along with the adrenaline of the chase.

“Aren’t you going to offer to help?” a deep voice said at his side. He turned his head to see Sherlock observing him quizzically. “You usually do.”

“Mmm,” John said vaguely, but did not move.

The paramedics barreled up, sirens wailing, and assessed the situation as they broke out their gear. The two technicians spoke urgently back and forth, and John heard enough of their dialogue to realize their patient was in a bad way. “Lung collapsing,” said one, “Ribs likely broken,” said the other; “this arm is broken.” “Nose, too. Jaw possibly dislocated.” “Christ, check for internal injuries.” “Possible kidney rupture; looks like a kick.” “How many attacked him, did they say?” “Never mind, let’s get him to the A&E, right now!”

As the paramedics got their patient on a stretcher and prepared for transport, John started to have trouble hearing their words over a roaring in his ears. _Oh, my god._ The list of injuries they had outlined were serious. _This man could die._ And John had done that to him, far more than was necessary to subdue the suspect, continuing to beat the offender while he himself was barely aware of it. His knees wobbled and the edges of his vision went white; he squatted down where he stood, and started to take deep breaths, elbows braced on his thighs, staring blankly ahead. He had almost killed a man with his bare hands. How had it happened? He had nearly beaten a man to death. Sherlock had had to drag him off. Had he lost his mind? Gone feral, like an animal? All he could remember was the rage, not even the bloke’s face or what he’d done. He was a doctor, for god’s sake!

His hands hung down in front of him; his knuckles dripped blood on the pavement. He should probably have them looked at, though he couldn’t feel the pain now. He stared at his fingers, fascinated with the spots of red as they landed between his feet.

_I did this. It’s right I should bleed._

~~~oOo~~~

John navigated through the next hours on autopilot: answering Lestrade’s questions when Sherlock didn’t deflect them quickly enough; drinking terrible tea at the Yard while Sherlock outlined the evidence of the case; cleaning and bandaging his knuckles with the first aid kit Lestrade kept in his desk once they had stopped bleeding. He kept pressing on them, feeling the pain as a distant thing, bringing him back into the moment so he could focus on the things he had to do.

A report came back a few hours into it - the suspect had pulled through but would be months in the healing. He might not regain full use of his arm. John received the news stoically, seemingly unmoved.

Underneath it all were his thoughts, swelling and tumbling like voices in a crowd: _you’re an animal. Dangerous. Vicious. You are fucked up, Watson. Something is wrong with you. If they knew what you’re really like, everyone would hate you, fear you, leave you. And they’d be right to do it. They’d be better off, really._

Sherlock eventually got it all sorted, and John was allowed to go home. He’d have to be careful around Lestrade for awhile - Greg was not convinced by Sherlock’s story of unexpected fighting prowess on the part of their likely murderer, and he eyed John skeptically but let him go. His friend put him in a cab and accompanied him back to the flat, where Amina had put Rosie down and taken herself off to bed.

Sherlock seemed to understand that John was not himself; he stayed surprisingly silent about it, though. He helped John off with his coat, then led the way into John’s bedroom to help him change for bed. John followed like a child, docile and silent, letting his friend get him out of his bloodied shirt and torn trousers, and helping him into pajama bottoms and an old T-shirt. Sherlock nudged him toward the bed.

“Sleep, John,” Sherlock said. “Things will be better in the morning.”

_You would know how wrong that is, if you knew what I’m really like._

John dropped into sleep like a stone into deep water.

~~oOo~~

The next morning, John just... didn’t get out of bed. He lay there, eyes closed, not asleep but pretending to be in case anyone checked on him. _Thank god for Amina,_ he thought, hearing her chattering to Rosie and the coos and shrieks from the baby. _I can just stay here for now. I’m so tired._ He rolled over, to face away from the door. _I just want to be alone for a bit._

He drifted back to sleep. Nothing better to do, after all.

Some time later, he wasn’t sure how long, his door burst open and Sherlock stood there. “Are you going to sleep all day, John?” he demanded.

John cracked one eyelid and squinted at the lanky form in the doorway. “I was considering it,” he grumbled. “Had a bit of a rough night.”

“Tedious,” his friend retorted, “Lestrade called. He said the suspect is recovering well, but they need us to clarify the evidence for Anderson’s people so that once he’s out of hospital they’ll have a case to prosecute. Are you coming?”

John groaned. “No, I think I’m going to stay here for now. I’m not really ready to talk to Greg about this case.”

“Nonsense, he’s already past your rather thorough take-down of the suspect, I’m sure. You’ve given him all the time in the world to build an ironclad case. Usually he’s scrambling before the murderer gets a solicitor and posts bail.”

“I doubt Greg sees it that way.” John rolled over to face the wall again. “Please tell Amina I’m not feeling all that well, would you? Thanks.”

The silence behind him was heavy, fraught with unsaid words and disapproval.

“John...”

“No, Sherlock. Not today.”

After a silent moment, the door closed with an unexpectedly loud click.

_Good, it’s better that I stay here. Alone is better. Besides, Sherlock needs to learn to get along without me. And I’m just... tired._

_So tired._

_I wish it would just stop._

He burrowed back into the covers.

~~oOo~~

He got up at suppertime, and gave Amina a break by making a simple pasta dinner for them before she left to teach Aikido at the dojo where she trained. Then Rosie needed a bath; John was wistfully charmed by his child’s splashing in the tub and her fascination with water scooped into a set of colorful cups and poured out again. Then it was pajamas, and a story, and a cuddle, and bed. Rosie was delighted with all of it, even the going to bed, since her stuffed elephant was waiting there for her with its blue fuzzy fabric smooth and soft against her pink cheek.

John went through the motions, occasionally chuckling, but mostly observing as if there was a padding of cotton wool around his thoughts. It seemed as though there were two of him: the one gently holding a wiggling child and getting her into a clean nappy and pink sleeping onesie, making faces to elicit smiles and tickling itty bitty feet; and the background observer, a step removed, muttering its own unending monologue of judgment and expectations. _Nice of you to spend some time with your child. A whole hour before putting her to bed, that’s excellent, that is. Not like you weren’t home all day. Better you limit your time, anyway - don’t want to get fed up and make a mistake. Not with her. Go to sleep, Rosie; you’ll be safe there._

He sat himself on the sofa and flipped on the telly, looking for something completely mindless he could stare at. Seemed like all the channels were showing WWII documentaries and films; was there some sort of anniversary he had missed? Snippets of the Blitz and flashes of London buried in rubble, explosions and Churchill’s orations blipped by. John turned it off; might as well go back to bed. He grabbed the baby monitor from the kitchen and shambled back into his room.

His bed felt lovely; soft but firm and supportive. Mary had picked them a great mattress, and he wiggled into the center of it, encroaching on what was often still ‘her’ side. _It’s all your side now, Watson. All alone in this big bed. For as long as you’re still around._

He lay there in the dark, while the observer in his head droned on.  


	3. I Just Need Some Light

John snapped awake, echoes of explosions and gunfire ringing in his ears; the scream lodged in his throat emerged as a squeaky whine.

There was someone in the room. A dark form loomed at the bedside, reaching for him.

John’s body blurred into action without conscious direction; he rolled out of the bed and tackled the intruder to the floor, straddling lean hips, hands around its throat, starting to squeeze.

“John,” a voice croaked as strong fingers scrabbled at his tightening grip, “John, it’s me!”

John’s hands tightened, then released as the words penetrated. He leaned away, shaking his head, and reached for the lamp on his bedside table. Yellow light bloomed in the room, revealing Sherlock panting under him, breaths wheezing as he rubbed his neck. Red marks were already starting to show on the pale skin of this throat; bruises emerging in the unmistakable shape of hands.

“Oh, my god!” John gasped, “Sherlock! Christ, are you alright?” he scrambled off his friend and held out a hand to help him up, urging him to sit on the bed while the man coughed and caught his breath. John’s hands trembled with adrenaline and shock at what he had almost done. “God, Sherlock, I’m so sorry. Please tell me I didn’t hurt you too badly,” _Oh God, please, let it be not be as bad as it looks._

Sherlock coughed again and sucked in a wheezing breath. “I’ll be fine in a few days, I’m sure,” he rasped, voice harsh in the quiet of John’s dim bedroom. “I’ve had worse stranglings.” He attempted a smirk that went weak, then coughed again, massaging at his throat and wincing.

“That doesn’t make me feel much better, you know. What the hell were you doing, coming in here in the dark, anyway?” John stood up and paced back and forth in front of the bed where Sherlock sat, elbows on his knees, and when Sherlock hesitated, he fixed the man with a gimlet stare. “Well?”

“I came in to see if you were alright, and if you planned to get up today,” Sherlock answered somewhat defensively. “You were being utterly dull yesterday, and young Watson and I were going to go for a walk later - well, she’d ride, of course, but you take my meaning, and so you would need to get up soon if you were to come with us.” Sherlock avoided John’s eyes throughout this statement, and his body language was closed, guarded. He kept John in his line of sight out of the corner of his eye, gauging how this went over with his friend.

“What time is it, even?” John muttered, spinning round to look at the clock by the bedside, then whirling back with a glower. “Christ, Sherlock, it’s five in the bloody morning! No wonder I was dead asleep when you came in. How did you get into the bloody flat, anyway?”

Again, Sherlock looked away, his body seeming to draw in on itself, and he looked at the floor. “When Amina came to stay, you gave me a key in case you needed me to come in and relieve her when you were delayed at the surgery and she had classes to teach. Don’t you remember?”

John seemed to remember such a thing, but vaguely, as if he had thought about it but not actually done it. Abruptly anger flared in his chest, and equally fear, though of what he wasn’t sure. Both found a focus in Sherlock. “That wasn’t a free pass to come in whenever you like, damn it!” He threw up his hands and paced again, words spewing forth almost without conscious thought. “You don’t live here, and I thought you were an intruder - I could have killed you, Sherlock, can you get that through your massive brain? What right do you have to come and go in my house whenever you like?” John rounded on Sherlock, causing his friend to flinch back from his rage, face white and stricken. “I’m a trained killer, you goddamn idiot, and you can’t know what I’ll do if you surprise me. What if I went for my gun instead of jumping you? I could have blown your head off!”

“John, you wouldn’t hurt me -”

“Bollocks! I just did! Listen to your voice, look at your neck in the mirror!”

“John, I should have known better than to creep up on you when you were sleeping. I’m just as guilty in this as you are.”

“Ha, and there’s the rub, what if I had killed you? I’d have to live with that for the rest of my life. Which wouldn’t be a long time, I don’t expect. Probably for the best...” John trailed off, the ire draining out of him like water. _I wouldn’t deserve to live long, if it happened. Rosie would be all right, with Amina to look after her, and Molly and Mrs. Hudson..._

“John, what on earth are you talking about?” Sherlock’s voice snapped him out of his head and back into the conversation, where his friend eyed him incredulously. “You didn’t, and you won’t, and it’s ridiculous to imagine something that will never happen.”

_You’re blind, Sherlock, if you think I’m not a danger to you._

“Sherlock, it is too early for any of this, and you should not be doing so much talking with that throat. You’re getting more hoarse by the minute. Go out to the sitting room, and I’ll come sit with you to monitor your airway until Amina and Rosie get up, as soon as I’m dressed.”

Sherlock looked at him for a long moment, then silently stood and went out the door.

John dropped his head into his hands as he sat on the side of the bed, legs suddenly rubbery with after-reaction. _Oh god, Oh god._ John’s own throat started to close up and he cuffed a tear away from each eye. _Oh god, what is wrong with me?_ Something in Sherlock’s words, as they replayed in his head, felt familiar in a way that made him simultaneously terrified and angry. He cuffed his eyes again, taking deep breaths to regain control of himself, mortified at his tears.

After a moment, he heaved a breath and pulled some jeans and a soft, long-sleeved Tshirt out of his dresser, hurriedly putting them on and going to join Sherlock in the sitting room.

~~oOo~~

Getting out of bed did nothing to assuage John’s guilty feelings. He lay on the sofa and pretended to sleep at Sherlock’s insistence once it was clear no complications would arise from their early-morning accident, his ears focused on the sounds of his friend’s scratchy breathing.

At about 7:30, Amina got Rosie out of bed as usual and entered the sitting room with her, stopping dead in the doorway and gaping at Sherlock where he was seated in an armchair, long neck mottled with purpling, finger-shaped marks. Amina had a soft spot for the acerbic detective, and was obviously quite concerned at his battered appearance.

“Good morning, young Watson, Amina,” Sherlock rasped, his deep tone lacking its usual resonance. Rosie squawked her displeasure at the sound. John continued to feign sleep, as Sherlock had clearly tried to speak softly for his benefit.  

“What the hell happened to you?” Amina asked forthrightly, though also careful not to wake a supposedly sleeping John, “Did you get on the wrong side of a criminal?”

“No,” Sherlock replied shortly, standing to take Rosie from the woman and following her into the kitchen to help with the child’s breakfast. John didn’t hold out much hope that the man would eat any himself.

When they were out of sight, but not out of earshot, Amina persisted. “Well, then? How did you get a strangling, eh? Because I’ve seen enough marks like that when my students mess about in class to know what finger marks look like.”

Usually, John knew Sherlock enjoyed Amina’s bullishness, finding her unwillingness to dance around an awkward or uncomfortable topic refreshing. This morning, however, his tone was cold and his answers short.

“It’s nothing,” he said.

“Doesn’t look like nothing,” she pointed out. “Looks like a bunch of ruddy great bruises in a collar around your neck. Is there someone I have to go teach a lesson in playing nice?”

“No.”

“Well, did you do it to yourself, then? Experiment or something?”

“No. I’d prefer not to talk about it.”

“Sherlock...”

Sherlock’s voice dropped, and John had to strain to hear his reply. “I surprised John out of a sound sleep, alright? I should have known better than to creep up on him in the dark, and him, a soldier. Of course he lashed out when he sensed someone in the room who he didn't expect. It’s not his fault; he’s dealing with a lot right now and he just gets angry, and I know that, and it’s fine. He didn’t even know it was me. I’ll be more careful in future.”

John didn’t hear Amina’s response over the din in his head.

_John’s mother sat at their dingy kitchen table in a flowered house dress, her face pale aside from a livid, shining bruise high on one cheek. She raised the mug of tea John had made her in one trembling hand and sipped it while the woman from next door spoke quietly to her, asking what happened, who did this to you, are you alright?_

_John’s mother set the tea down, and stared blankly at the mug instead of the person. “I’m fine. I should know better than to provoke him. He’s having troubles at work, and he gets angry. It’s fine, usually I can keep from setting him off. It’s my own fault, really. I should have known better this time, that’s all.”_

_In the next room John put down his own tea and pulled up his sleeve to reveal finger-shaped bruises on his forearm, remembering the strong hand gripping him when he tried to defend his mother from his father’s inebriated fury. He didn’t think there was any way to avoid setting the old man off, when he’d been in the pub all evening and came home spoiling for a fight. John sat, listening to his mother make excuses for her husband for the hundredth - the thousandth - time, and he sipped his tea and thought savagely about how he would get away from there and take her with him; save her from the monster that pretended to be her husband._

_He didn’t get the chance. His father wrapped their car around a tree not three months later, driving home drunk from a party his new factory job had thrown. His mother was in the car. They both died instantly._

“John?”

John twitched, startled, at the scratchy baritone voice calling his name from very close by. Sherlock crouched warily by his feet, brow creased with concern.

John blinked at him a few times before snapping “What?”

“You looked like you were having a bad dream,” Sherlock ventured. “I thought you might prefer to wake up.”

John blew out a long breath. He hadn’t been asleep, not really, but the memories he’d been wandering in were certainly bad enough to qualify. “I guess I was,” he said. “Er, thanks.”

~~oOo~~

At their next crime scene the following day, John arrived after paying for their cab to the sound of Sherlock nearly taking Lestrade’s head off when the DI inquired about the marks and whether he’d have to arrest someone for assault.

“Never mind about that, Lestrade! I did it to myself, alright?” Sherlock huffed.  

Lestrade gaped for a moment. “Christ, why?”

Sherlock shot a quick look at John, then averted his gaze to the side. “Experiment,” he lied breezily. “Now, would you like me to look at your crime scene sometime this week? Get on with it!” He hustled off in the direction of the yellow tape, popping his collar and adjusting his scarf up snug around his neck.

Lestrade hung back to catch a word with John, brow creased in concern. “‘Is he really alright? I mean, what kind of experiment ends up with bruises like that, on your neck, even?”

“If he’s not, you’ll never get him to admit it,” John replied grimly. He suddenly wanted not to be there, not to have to see other people noticing and reacting to his handiwork, unintentional though it may have been. Not have to see the occasional twinges of pain as they passed across his friend’s face and were ruthlessly suppressed. Not to have to face what he had done.

John felt a leaden tightness in his chest, that stayed with him for the rest of the day; but if anyone noticed, they didn’t comment.

~~oOo~~

John’s dreams that night were bizarre and intense, even for him. 

_ Set to the usual soundtrack of machine gun fire and screaming, he and Sherlock pursued a faceless, blurry suspect down dark alleys and across muddy parks, always losing the track and then finding it again, with Sherlock casting about, sniffing like a bloodhound on the trail.  _

_ Sherlock ran on ahead, as usual, leaving John behind to struggle along through increasingly thick, viscous darkness. The tall, lean figure was soon lost in the gloom, the sound of his footsteps and those of their suspect the only indication of what direction he’d gone. John doggedly dragged on through the murk, determined to catch up. He could hear members of his unit, calling for backup on their radios, shouting orders for engaging the enemy, screaming they’d been hit. He couldn’t attend to them now; Sherlock needed him.  _

_ Abruptly he spilled out the of blackness into a ghostly lit, dead-end alley. Sherlock and their quarry were grappling, locked in an embrace of violence with feet kicking and the occasional fist connecting to gut or cheek. John looked on, horrified but unable to see a way to assist in taking down the attacker without endangering Sherlock as well, until his friend slipped on a wet patch on the ground and pitched forward on his face. He was about to be pummeled unconscious by the shadowy figure they had pursued when John launched himself onto the man’s back, tackling him over Sherlock’s prone form and pinning the bulky body to the ground with his own weight.  _

_ He was consumed by rage and the sounds of gunfire thundered louder in his ears, orders and cries echoing with his memories of his comrades  _ in extremis _. He straddled his captive, still flat on the ground, and lifted the man’s shoulders about two feet up, then slammed him back down, smashing his face on the pavement. The body beneath him went limp, but still he seethed with anger, the lighting in the alley taking on a lurid red cast, blurring fine details. _

_ John flipped the offender over and grabbed him around the throat, starting to squeeze. He couldn’t see so well in the strange light, but he felt the sinews beneath his fingers and tightened his grip, knowing that he was collapsing a windpipe, stopping blood flow to the brain. It wasn’t enough. He let go, and heard a sucking inhale as he took the head in his hands and wrenched, hearing the neck break with a sickening crunch, followed by a deafening blast of gunfire and screams coming from every direction. _

_ And then silence. Not a single sound beyond his own labored breathing. _

_ John expected Sherlock to say something, and looked around for him; nothing could be seen but the blank bricks of the alley in the pale, sourceless light, still tinged with red. He was alone with the man he had killed; a shiver passed over the back of his neck.  _

_ He looked down at the body over which he still crouched, seeing it more clearly now.  _

_ Seeing the dark brown curls, the pale skin, the high cheekbones. Seeing Sherlock, bloody and lifeless, his head still cradled in John’s hands.  _

_ With a choked cry, John pitched back from the body of his best friend, sprawled where he had fallen. Where John had killed him. John heard himself, crying, stuttering denials, no no no, oh shit, oh god no, oh god... as he scrabbled for a wrist, looking for a pulse, pushing aside the drifts of flowered fabric that covered his friend’s body to press fingers to the neck he had broken only moments ago, knowing there was no hope, knowing life had departed.  _

_ He rolled Sherlock’s face toward him in search of a carotid pulse, and, finding none, merely cupped the aristocratic head in his shaking hands once more, apologizing, begging for forgiveness, a miracle, anything. _

_ The kaleidoscopic eyes he knew so well opened and, glazed with the haze of death, looked straight into his own.  _

_ “It’s not your fault, John,” the corpse rasped in a horrific parody of Sherlock’s buttery baritone, “I shouldn’t have set you off.” _

John shot up in bed, biting off a scream; then he sank his face in his hands, dissolving into choking tears, trying to sob quietly so as to not wake up the rest of the household. Behind his eyelids all he could see was the dead face of his best friend, clad in his mother’s flowered housecoat, making a hundred excuses... for him. 

John didn’t dare try to get back to sleep that night.

 


	4. The Argument's Imminent

The next morning John sat numbly at the breakfast table while Rosie giggled and cooed at the spoonfuls of banana and avocado he mechanically put to her lips. His usually practical inner monologue was lacking, no reminders to himself about appointments later that day or intentions to buy chicken for supper or check out the local schools. Instead, there was heavy, echoing silence in his head, along with a dull sense that it was all too much. Too much to take, too much to even think about. He wanted it to stop. For everything to just stop. For someone, or something to take the burdens of his life and make them all go away.

His daughter burbled through her spoonful of banana in a way that would have made him laugh out loud a day ago; today he smiled and stifled a feeling of resentment that she was there, a stark reminder of his responsibilities. _I can’t stop, because I have to take care of you_ , he thought. _I love you so much, but it’s so hard. You need everything and I’m the only one who can give it to you. I’m not the man you need me to be. I’m a monster._

_I wish it would just stop already._

John blew out a sigh, and passed the spoon over to a freshly showered and dressed Amina as she entered the kitchen. Then he dragged himself to his own room to get ready for his shift at the surgery.

The day passed in a blur of sniffling noses, repetitive motion injuries, and unpleasant skin conditions. John did his work efficiently and attentively, all the while feeling detached, removed from genuine connection with his patients. He chalked it up to his poor sleep the night before.

He brought home take-out for supper, and bathed his daughter and tickled her and smiled at her, and longed for his bed.

Amina excused herself to do some studying in her own room rather than watch telly that night after the baby was asleep, and John sat silently on the sofa for a short while before taking himself off to bed. He longed for the oblivion of sleep, but dreaded what he might find there. In the end it claimed him - filled with gunfire and screaming and a young woman he knew was his daughter all grown up, making excuses.

~~oOo~~

Sherlock dragged him to a crime scene the day after that. “You look like you could use a pick-me-up,” he quipped. “I’ve got a nice double-homicide, a locked room, on the hob just now. Come on!” And he hustled John into a cab, blithely informing Amina they’d be back sometime before tomorrow. His manic grin faded a little in the face of John’s haggard silence.

John couldn’t help but notice the marks under Sherlock’s scarf, faded now but still showing. _A monster._ He had to screw up his courage to ask “how’s the neck feeling, then?”

“It’s fine. Haven’t felt a twinge since yesterday, and Amina gave me some Arnica cream to put on the bruises.”

John internally berated himself; he should have given Sherlock a remedy for the bruises; it was the least he could do. _A terrible friend and not even a decent doctor, then, Watson._ “I’m glad to hear it. So, what’s this crime scene we’re going to?”

And Sherlock was off, enthusiastically describing the gory details of a messy murder scene, much to the chagrin of their cab driver. That worthy soul kept shooting Sherlock slightly wide-eyed, concerned looks in the rear view mirror, clearly wondering what kind of nutter he was transporting. _If only you knew, mate. He’s not the danger in this cab._

John was pulled along in Sherlock’s wake, maintaining a decent facade of enjoyment and interest in the case while behind his eyes the thick feeling of being removed, of disengaging from the moment like he was padded in cotton wool, dogged his every step. More than once he snapped back to alertness having gone down a path in his mind to Sherlock’s dead face from his dream, or thinking about the corpse at their feet. _That’s not how I’d do it; too messy._

Sherlock tugged at a sleeve to get John moving; they had to go to the morgue. While there, Sherlock had one of his a-ha moments, and soon they were staking out a flat, shivering in the dark, with no backup. As usual.

Sherlock had offered twenty pounds to a shapeless figure swathed in layers of sweatshirts and dingy jackets to bring them some takeaway where they hid, and they spooned up curry straight from the cartons, relishing the heat. John shook his head at the absurdity of what they were doing, smiling a bit until it occurred to him that he might be called upon to tackle a suspect. What if he got it wrong? Hurt Sherlock again?

He put down his supper half-finished, appetite draining away. He’d have to be careful, that’s all. Be sure. Be certain before he acted. That’s all.

John turned his head and caught Sherlock’s eye, who was watching the play of emotions on John’s face with a frown. “You’re not eating?” He said carefully, indicating John’s carton with his spoon. “It will get cold.”

“That’s okay. Not that hungry, I guess.” John replied.

“You’re the one who always tells me we need food for these ‘escapades,’” Sherlock indicated the air quotes with his eyebrows, “and even I know the heat will do you good. I think you should eat.”

“Oh, yeah, how the tables have turned,” John retorted jokingly. “Sherlock Holmes telling me to eat. What’s next? Regular sleep? Ha!”

Sherlock regarded him soberly for a moment. “It couldn’t hurt,” he said quietly then looked back down into his own carton, letting the matter drop in favor of wolfing his curry.

John took up his own supper again, and made himself finish it.

~~oOo~~

Sleep became a double-edged sword over the next few weeks. Some nights John actively avoided going to sleep, dreading the terrible dreams filled with bloody bodies wearing dear faces, solemnly telling him that everything was fine.

He’d watch crap telly, or ridiculous YouTube videos, or obsessively read immersive fantasy novels far into the quiet hours of the early morning, wrapped in his dressing gown and a blanket, shivering when the heating program put the temperature down to save energy. When he couldn’t keep his eyes open a moment longer, he’d drag himself off to bed.

If he did sleep, it was the opposite; once he was unconscious it would be a struggle to get up again, even with the nightmares. It was like the comfortable cocoon of his duvet and pillow exerted a siren call against which he had to fight harder and harder each day before groaning out of bed to meet his obligations.

He comforted himself with how well he was maintaining, putting up a facade for his family and friends - though he knew he couldn’t possibly be fooling Sherlock. More than once he saw the detective give him the once-over, catching the tells of insomnia and exhaustion, and each time his friend clamped down on the comments John knew should be coming his way. It made him unreasonably angry at times - how dare Sherlock coddle him? Other times it merely confirmed the thoughts that seemed to be on droning, dull repeat in the back of his head: _why should he bother? What good would it do him to try to fix you? He doesn’t need you hanging about, holding him back, hurting him. He’s better off leaving you alone._

He attended cases when they presented themselves, barely noticing the murmuring beneath his thoughts as it categorized the crimes they were called to observe. _Too bloody; can’t guarantee it would work; takes too long to die; might end up a vegetable instead; God, wouldn’t want Mrs Hudson to find me like that, she’d have a heart attack._

_I wouldn’t do it that way._

By the time John noticed the slant to his thoughts, he had already ruled out most forms of violent death for himself. And he had contemplated quite seriously all the methods they encountered - gruesome though they might be, they were no deterrent to careful consideration. It didn’t worry him; it was just a series of scenarios he was running to occupy his mind while Sherlock performed his miracles of logic and deduction.

In the end, it came down to _it’ll have to be an overdose, then. Cleanest with the right combination of medicines, and I can ensure the dosage is right. And it won’t hurt, everything will just slow down until it stops._ The thought brought such a feeling of relief that he played it in his mind more and more often - when he was waiting in the queue to pay for groceries; feeding Rosie her sweet potatoes and bananas, laying in bed trying to close his eyes. It didn’t matter: the prospect of an end to the dullness, the pretending to be alright, the letting everyone believe he was a good person when he knew he was so far from it - _abuser, monster, wrong_ \- was so enticing. It soothed him. Of course he never would actually do it. But if things ever got really unbearable, there was always that last option.

One night as John was emptying out his pockets after a shift at the surgery, he noticed the little bowl where he stowed the bits and bobs of a doctor’s day that might be risky for little hands to get hold of was rather full. He dumped it out on the bed, surprised to realize he had all sorts of things in there: the odd button, spare plasters, more than one loose bullet for his gun, a few cough lozenges in battered wrappers. Also there were half-used packets of anti-nausea tablets and free trial packs of painkillers the big pharma companies would give to clinics to encourage later prescriptions. _There’s almost enough,_ he noted absently. _If I had to, I could._

~~oOo~~

Sherlock was acting strangely. John couldn’t figure it out, and it irked him.  

He’d ask John’s opinion on cases that were in John’s specialties - medicine, or firearms, or tactics - or even sometimes only vaguely associated with them, and thanked or complimented him when he had something to offer. The glow of pleasure these moments produced in his chest were almost enough to drown out the dull monologue that ran beneath his thoughts.

Sherlock didn’t demand he come to Baker Street all the time, instead stopping by John’s flat when the whim struck. When John did visit, Sherlock made him tea and had his favorite biscuits in the cupboard. Sherlock would watch John over the rim of his own cup with every sign of contentment to have John there, despite his dropping crumbs on the floor.

Even more unexpectedly, Sherlock would let him have the last word once in awhile, usually in conversations about Rosie. The more time Sherlock spent with the girl, the more she seemed to charm him. When she did something especially to his liking, such as making a random sound that included most of the consonants of his name, or enthusiastically eating the special blend of fruits, oils and cereals he had concocted for her “to provide optimal nutrition for her developing neural pathways, John, this is a critical time for her intellectual development,” he would grin broadly and shoot John a look that said ‘see? She likes me!’ as though it was the last thing he would ever have expected. _Alright, then,_ John thought; _Rosie has Amina, and Sherlock, if anything ever happens to me._  

The irked part came with the careful, almost bloody _demure_ way Sherlock looked at John sometimes when he thought John couldn’t see. Such meekness didn’t suit his direct, forthright friend. It stirred his guilt; Sherlock, being especially kind to him, coddling him - not setting him off. Keeping him from being dangerous. From hurting Sherlock again, or someone else. _Smart of him, but it’s no guarantee. Didn’t work for Mum, that’s for sure._


	5. There Can Be No Right

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: suicide attempt (unsuccessful) in this chapter! If you wish to avoid that section, stop after John puts Sherlock to bed with tea and a painkiller and pick up again next chapter. Take care of yourself!

John thought he had come to a workable equilibrium; a maintainable, if miserable, accommodation with the realities of his life as it stood. It felt tentative, fragile, but he got through each day and coped as best he was able, desperate to put forward a stoic face and be what Rosie and everyone needed him to be.

He should have known it wouldn’t - couldn’t - last.

It started simple; a case, like a hundred other cases.

“Bloody pretentious cock thinks he can do anything, and there’s a criminal, too,” John cracked to Lestrade after they had interviewed the main suspect, a trust fund kid who made threats about his father’s lawyers and his family’s connections and seemed in no way perturbed that his sometimes-girlfriend had been violently murdered in her flat. Sherlock met the little twat’s fronting with cold arrogance of his own, methodically deconstructing the bluster and determining that the youth might be a prick, but he couldn’t have murdered their victim.  

However, he did provide a lead that Sherlock could follow, and John followed Sherlock. Lord knows his friend needed backup when he pulled these harebrained stunts.

Of course the lead sent them to the shadier side of town. Of course they snuck into a drug den with a serious reputation for brutal players. And of course, they got caught. John thanked his lucky stars that his gun was tucked in his waistband, but carefully kept an eye on Sherlock. The last time his friend had snatched the weapon from his pocket it had ended badly, and he didn’t entirely trust Sherlock not to act the arse again if John were less than vigilant.

The two of them were backed into a corner by a matched pair of thick-necked thugs whose heavy eyebrows and low foreheads gave them a look of bestial menace. Equally threatening were the long knives they each held low and at the ready. John showed his open hands, trying to look harmless.

Sherlock, again _of course_ , decided to brazen it out. “We’re here to have a conversation with Mack Davies,” he said calmly, naming the contact the rich twat had reluctantly identified during their interrogation.

“Are you now?” one thug rumbled. “Have an appointment, do you?”

“I think he’ll see me,” Sherlock replied with unruffled confidence. “I have some business to discuss with him.”

Both thugs chuckled thickly. “Good luck to you, then,” the talkative one said. “Come on.”

Leaving his companion to watch the hallway, he led them deeper into the rickety abandoned house that served as a crack den for much of this section of London. John didn’t like the look of the dingy walls, or the rooms with the quiet forms, high out of their heads, laid out in rows like casualties. It reminded him strongly of the time he had found Sherlock in a place like this. It had been the first time he’d seen his friend actually on drugs, and look what that had led to. His expression soured.

“Not to worry, John,” Sherlock murmured close to his ear. He shivered with the unexpected tickle of it. “I am not using anymore, and this does not tempt me in the least.”

It was eerie when Sherlock seemed to know what he was thinking. “I should hope not,” John retorted under his breath, “You’d never get the smell out of your coat.”

Sherlock snorted quietly. “I’d not do that to Rosie - or you - again, John.” They followed their lumbering guide down a long stair into what seemed to be a once-finished basement; the smell of damp and marijuana with overtones of old piss intensified.

John shook himself mentally and refocused on their situation; his flare of sympathy and gratitude for Sherlock’s assurance that his daughter, and he, were helping to keep Sherlock on the straight and narrow was important, but could distract him from the danger they were in, if he let it.

It was a timely thought as the thug opened a door into another part of the finished basement, and bright light made them squint when they stepped through into a - surprisingly nice - office. The air here was not as odorous, and a purifier whirred quietly in the corner. A dapper fellow with the pallid complexion of one who rarely saw the sun was counting bills on a clean, modern-styled desk, while another man clad all in leather just a shade darker than his deep mahogany skin looked on. The leather fellow turned a glare their way and faced them fully, seeming to puff out as he did so; at over six feet tall and most of that lean, heavy muscle, the threat in his posture was all too apparent.

“Oi, Jack, what da fuck is dis?” he snarled, his East London accent thick with censure. “We weren’t to be disturbed.”

The thug ducked his head and scuffed a foot on the carpet. “Sorry, Spike, but we found these two up in the hallway by the door, din’t we, strolling in bold as you please. Me’n Archie stopped ‘em, but they said what they ‘ad business for ‘im.” he looked over at the bill-counter for confirmation.

Light flashed on round lenses as the man at the desk stopped counting and looked Sherlock and John over, then resumed his task. “They don’t have an appointment,” he said in a light tenor utterly devoid of emotion. “They can go.” Spike shifted his weight and wiggled his fingers, limbering them up. John braced himself to have to fight their way out.

“Mr. Davies, I think you’ll want to talk to me,” Sherlock’s cultured, deep voice rolled in stark contrast to the light tones of the bill-counter, who John was surprised to learn was the Mack Davies that wanker had described back at the Yard. The kid had made him sound like Freddie Krueger in a slim tie and waistcoat, and this scrawny git didn’t look all that terrifying. His sidekick, however... well. That bloke was bad news if John was any judge.

“Don’t speak, I’m counting.” John could feel Sherlock bristle in indignation; he put a placating hand on his friend’s arm and shot him a firm head shake. Sherlock subsided with poor grace, but waited in silence.

When the counting was finished, Davies looked up at them again. “Still here? Well, then,” he handed a wrapped stack of bills to the leather bloke. “Gary, just put these in the safe, won’t you?” Leather guy twitched and scowled as his decidedly less-than-terrifying name was revealed, but took the bundled money and headed for a door at the back of the room.

Davies looked at them dispassionately as the big man left the room. “So, you have some... business for me, you say?” His tone could not be more uninterested.  

Sherlock regarded the man levelly. “An opportunity, yes. Do you know Amanda Wilmington?”

“I know of her,” Davies replied blandly, “but I wouldn’t say we were acquainted.”

“She was a... customer of yours?”

“Was, you say? What has happened to her?” Davies leaned forward, displaying the first interest John had seen on his face since they arrived.

“She has been murdered. Her boyfriend thinks you had something to do with it. Did you?” Sherlock went straight to the point, hoping to catch an unguarded expression on Davies’ face.

The man grinned with delight. “Murdered! My goodness, how terrible!” His words were appropriate to the tragedy, but his tone implied approving surprise. “How was it done?” John realized in that moment that they were dealing with a true psychopath, someone who lacked the slightest bit of empathy for other people. This man could easily have murdered someone just for the fun of it, or because he was curious about what a human liver looked like up close.  

“You tell me,” Sherlock challenged. Behind them, Jack made a tiny sound of fear. John glanced at him, turning sideways to the other two in the room to be able to look from one to the other. Jack had gone bone-white, looking at Sherlock like he was mad.

“I could show you...” Davies was crooning, then he sat up straight and his face closed down. “If I had any idea of what happened.”

At that moment the door to the back room opened and Gary-aka-Spike entered again. Davies called over his shoulder “Gary, did you hear? Someone’s killed that slag of yours, Amanda.”

John had been observing Spike’s return, and couldn’t help but see his expression as his boss blithely threw this comment at him. As obvious as street signs, the emotions were passing across the big man’s face: surprise, guilt, anger; each chased across, then settled into stoic implacability. John saw his own death written there, and Sherlock’s.

Sherlock had seen it too, probably more clearly than John had, and the ‘Oh!’ of realization that gasped next to John’s ear was cold comfort. “Yes, I suppose you could, but you actually don’t have any knowledge of the crime. Your man, here, though - Gary, is it?” Sherlock pinned the big man with a gimlet stare. “You know just what happened to her, don’t you.”

“I got nuffin’ to say,” Spike replied mulishly.

“Of course not. Well then, you don’t need to say anything. I’ll tell you how it went, and you tell me where I get it wrong, then, yes? You had been trading sex for some of Mister Davies’ product with Ms. Wilmington. She had been asking to change the arrangement, had grown tired of your demands and rough treatment. Her boyfriend was starting to notice the evidence you left on her body, and she wanted to keep him almost as much as she needed the drugs.”

Sherlock started pacing like a big cat in a cage, gaze never leaving his target’s face, which had gone shiny with sweat. John tore his own eyes away to check on the other observers of this little drama; Jack had shrunk back and was half out the door they had entered by, looking like he might run at any moment. Davies leaned back in his desk chair, beaming like the finest actors were performing a play, just for him. John determined to keep at least one eye on that one, as he was clearly round the twist - like a Moriarty with less experience, at the start of his career perhaps.

Spike tried to keep his poker face as Sherlock continued, but it was cracking at the edges. “You met up with her last night, intending to get a leg over. When she refused and offered you cash, you became enraged. It didn’t help that you’d been sampling the goods in order to enhance your tryst with Ms. Wilmington; you had a loud row, which her neighbors all heard and thought was the boyfriend. She demanded, and then threatened, and then begged and you lost your temper and snapped; and before you knew it, so... had... her... NECK.” With each of these last few words, Spike flinched as if slapped, breathing like a bellows. The room descended into silence, punctuated by the click of the latch as Jack took his chance to flee.

Until Davies started cackling. “Oh, my god, Gary, did you really? What was it like? Was there a noise? Did her head get all floppy? Please, tell me all about it!” He cackled again.

Spike was rattled; Sherlock had described the event in enough detail that he was remembering it clearly. “Mister D, I can’t tell you. It was ‘orrible.”

“Come on Gary, don’t be such a lump. This might be the first unexpected thing you’ve done all year!”

“Shut up! I loved ‘er! And I - I killed ‘er!”

“Gary,” the tone Davies employed carried a cold threat, but the man was deep in his self-recriminations now, muttering about how he was sorry, he hadn’t meant to, please, he was so sorry. His about-face from tough guy to blubbering mess was so quick and so marked a change that John wondered if he had been using before they arrived. “Gary!” Davies shouted. “Get yourself together, you stupid cunt! We’ve got a problem here!”

Spike’s weeping and moaning had been gaining volume throughout, but at this it cut off completely, and he stared at Davies through red eyes. “Amanda is dead, Mister D. I loved ‘er and she’s dead, because of me. Can’t you get dat frough your ‘ead? What problem is worse ‘an ‘at?”

“So the bint is dead. There are more of them, all over the place. Get another one!” Davies cried in exasperation. “We have to make sure this doesn’t come back and disrupt business! These two know all about it now, and they’ll bring the cops. We have to take care of them. YOU have to take care of them, Gary.”

Spike’s rage had grown more visible with every word that tumbled out of Davies’s mouth. “Don’t call me Gary - my name is Spike.”

Sherlock thought it a good idea to interject: “Spike, you will serve time for this, but if you give yourself up...” John elbowed him in the side to shut him up before the man’s rage turned on them.

“Now is not the time to talk about it, Gary. We have to deal with these two first!”

“Don’t call me dat!” a switchblade had appeared in Spike’s hand like magic, and he gripped it tightly.

“Goddammit, Gary!” Davies yelled.

Spike lost his grip, further solidifying John’s guess that he was on something. With a roar, he lunged at Davies, knife outstretched to stab. Davies moved like a snake, but was hampered by his position in the desk chair. It tipped back with him in it, and Spike followed him down, blade flashing. There was a gurgling cry and a spray of red flew up from behind the desk. John and Sherlock exchanged a wide-eyed look; John pivoting to better cover Sherlock’s back.

Then Spike, splattered with gore, rose from his victim to face the two men left in the room. “I’ve done it again, now. Killed someone,” he said woodenly, holding up the dripping knife.

John pulled his gun from the small of his back and pointed it at the man’s head. He barked  “alright now, Spike, mate, stay right where you are. If you come one step closer, I will shoot you, do you understand?”

“John!” Sherlock hissed. “We have to take him down!”

“Guess dis makes me a killer, huh, Mister D? Killed Amanda, killed you. Few more won’t hurt, den, I guess.” Spike took a shambling step toward John, the knife in his hand coming up to a fighting position.

“Stand! Down! Now!” John shouted, re-aiming his pistol at the man’s thigh; a wound that would stop but not kill him.

Spike shook his head like some insects were flying around it, though neither Sherlock nor John could see anything. Then he lowered his head like a bull and pounded, bellowing, across the floor at John.

“John!” Sherlock cried, “Look out!”

John held steady, making sure of his aim, and began to squeeze the trigger when a weight barreled into him, knocking him aside. His gun discharged and he heard a cry of pain, then Sherlock and Spike toppled over on top of him, knocking the wind out of him with a whoosh.

It took John a moment to get his breath back, and it was lucky he didn’t take any longer as the knife descended toward Sherlock’s body sprawled next to him, wielded by the demented Spike in a wide, jerky swipe that would have gashed Sherlock’s throat had it connected. John knocked it aside, then gathered himself and tackled the murderous henchman to the ground, pounding the wrist holding the knife against the concrete floor until the hand released and the weapon skittered away against the wall somewhere.

His opponent bucked like a wild horse, trying to shake John off and keep fighting. John managed to take Spike with a vicious uppercut to the chin, slamming his head back and cracking it audibly against the unforgiving floor. Spike went limp, dazed by the thumps to his skull. John rolled him over and knelt on his back to keep him down while he looked frantically around for Sherlock.

“Sherlock! Are you alright? Sherlock!”

There was a groan from his friend, then a curse as he tried to sit up. “I’m fine.” Sherlock heaved himself to sitting, and then to his knees, digging through his pockets with purpose. “Let’s get our friend tied up and get the Yard on its way, hmm?” He produced a fistful of zip ties, which John used to secure Spike’s hands, and for good measure did his feet, too. By the time he was finished, Sherlock was on his phone, filling in someone with rapid-fire delivery about where to come to collect his murderer, oh, and there was another victim, crime committed right in front of two witnesses after confessing to the first, possibly the murderer was on drugs. Then he paused and John could hear the tinny yelling echoing over the line as Sherlock mouthed ‘Lestrade - he’s a little upset.’ The grin and thumbs-up that accompanied his resumed conversation made John snort out a chuckle; just like Sherlock to joke at a crime scene, even one that he participated in.

“Just come and see for yourself, Lestrade, I haven’t all night to hang about and gossip with you on the phone,” he snarked as he hung up. “They should be along presently.” A grimace passed across his face at that moment, and he pressed a hand to his side.

John jumped up from the floor to grab at Sherlock’s coat, flipping it open and turning his friend’s torso to the light. Sherlock was wearing dark trousers and a deep blue shirt, so the staining didn’t show until the light hit it and made the wetness gleam, a glimpse of bright red peeking through a tear in the fabric. “Sherlock, what the hell?” John gasped. “Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt?” He hastened to pull his friend’s shirt from the waistband of the trousers, slowing to move more gently when Sherlock hissed through his teeth and flinched away. “Sorry, sorry. When did he even have a chance to slash you? He knocked me over but I wasn’t down more than a second or two...oh my god.”

As the shirt tails peeled back, it became clear the wound was not from a knife. “Sherlock... this is a bullet wound.” John said quietly.

“Just a graze,” Sherlock said. “Barely clipped me.” His voice was tight with pain and something more, something in his eyes pleading with John to let it go.

“I shot you, Sherlock. No one else had a gun here, only me. I was about to take him down with a shot to the leg, and you slammed into me, and I shot you instead!” John was trembling with shock and a swiftly building anger. “Why the HELL did you knock me down in the first place!”

“I couldn’t let him get to you, John! He was high and berserk with rage!”

“I had it under control! Christ, I could have killed you!”

“He could have killed YOU!” Sherlock thundered. “I couldn’t let that happen!”

“So you jumped in front of my gun! That’s really smart, that is!” John railed at Sherlock, his fury boiling in his gut, mixing with the terrifying knowledge of how close he had come to putting a bullet through his best friend. HAD put a bullet through him, as a matter of fact.

“I didn’t realize you were about to shoot!”

“I had the gun up and pointed at a killer who was running straight for me, what do you think I was going to do with it? Throw it at him?”

“John -”

“How could you be so stupid! Now you’re bleeding, and while you won’t need stitches because of course, you’re right, it is just a graze -”

“John -”

“...but you had to be the hero, so we’ll need to watch it for infection and it will hurt like a bitch for two weeks at least, and I could have killed you, don’t you see?”

“John, stop!” Sherlock’s weak cry penetrated the fog of fear and rage that John was spewing, and he realized he had taken his ( _wounded!)_ friend by the shoulders and was shaking him sharply to punctuate his rant. “I think I should sit down,” Sherlock suggested.

“Shit,” John rasped. “Here - lean against the desk, and we’ll use my scarf to put pressure on it to stop the bleeding.” _You can’t do anything right, Watson. Too busy being pissed off to actually take care of the person you just bloody_ _shot_ _. Fucking hell, what a piece of work._

He had just begun to press his thin wool scarf, folded in a pad, against Sherlock’s side when the cavalry stormed in, bringing glaring lights, noise, and shouted questions from every side. Lestrade made a beeline for them, but before he could get there, Sherlock grasped John’s wrist where it pressed the padding to his side. “John, you have a family, and I made a vow to keep you safe. I admit, I may have misjudged tonight and made a mistake when you were in danger, but I did it to protect you. Surely you can understand that?”

Their gazes locked for a long moment, one of those looks that they so often shared and that John felt was a sort of nonverbal communication between them. He did understand, all too well. Sherlock had made a promise to keep him safe, and he had demonstrated over and over that he would go to any length, take any risk, court any danger to the point of his own ruin, to achieve that vow. John was humbled by such dedication from a man he had once called a machine, but he also knew what the inevitable outcome of such a fixation would be: Sherlock underestimating the danger once too often, and ending up dead.

Which made John a liability.

John gave Sherlock a brief nod, to show he understood. He’d think about what to do about it later.

~~oOo~~

All too soon, they had given statements and Sherlock’s wound had been pronounced superficial by the paramedic on scene, though she gave them an incredulous look when they asserted it was not a bullet graze but a knife that had turned and scraped oddly. John’s pistol was safely stowed back in his jacket, shielded from being seen by Yard personnel who might want to ask questions.

As they left the building to look for a taxi, a sense of heavy exhaustion settled over John, and even Sherlock’s boundless energy seemed depleted. Once they had found a cab and were on the way to John’s flat, Sherlock sagged into the seat and listed over during a turn until his unwounded side pressed into John’s, a warm, solid presence that John found very welcome. It proved his friend was still there, even when John’s eyes inevitably closed.

The ride was a long one, and by the time they arrived John had dozed and surfaced back to consciousness several times. Each time, Sherlock was there, looking at John with an inscrutable stare, or seemingly gazing out the window, though John noticed his own reflection in the glass directly in Sherlock’s line of sight. His friend was keeping John in view; keeping an eye on him; keeping him safe.

The unfailing focus brought to mind the realization John had come to before the Yard had arrived at the crime scene. John’s presence on cases with Sherlock was a distraction that would inevitably lead to his mad friend’s death, sidetracking the genius detective with concerns for John’s safety at some unfortunate, crucial moment. Continuing to work with Sherlock like that would be tantamount to killing him, almost. _Already has been, at least twice - jump off a building, or off his tits with drugs, it amounts to the same thing. Killing himself to save me. And what do I do? Nut him in a chip shop. Kick the ever-living shit out of him in a morgue then tell him he killed my wife to twist the knife when he was down. Bloody well shoot him myself! Why would he ever care so much? He’s just like Mum, coming back again and again to the one who hurts him until it kills him. Coming back to me, until I get him killed._

The cab pulled up to the curb with a jolt in front of John’s bland front door, snapping John from his thoughts. Sherlock shook himself, then hauled his body gingerly out of the cab using his good arm - leaving John to pay as usual. John passed over some notes, telling the cabbie to keep the change. The monologue in the back of his mind kept rolling on continuous loop: _you’ll kill him; you hurt him; you’re a monster. A danger to the people who love you; to your own daughter. Not worth the care they give you. Don’t deserve their love. Worthless. Better off for everyone if you’re gone. Better for everyone, even you... maybe it will stop hurting, then._

They dragged into John’s flat after getting the door unlocked, each deep in their own thoughts. John put Sherlock to bed on the sofa in short order, plying him with blankets, pillows and decaf Earl Grey paired with a decent painkiller and a hard glare. His hands and feet worked on autopilot, as though he watched from just outside his own head; ensuring his friend’s comfort in spite of the relentless, poisonous internal voice that was drowning his heart in numbness.  

John drank his own tea, blankly waiting for Sherlock to drift off as the painkiller dulled the sting of his friend’s wound and encouraged exhaustion to pull him under. When mercurial eyes finally closed and the stark lines of his friend’s face had slackened into sleep, John quietly rose and rinsed his mug in the kitchen sink. Then, as he did each night, he made a circuit of the flat before going to his own room. Front door, back door, windows in sitting room, kitchen and bathroom, Amina’s door (though he never went in, he wasn’t a creep), Rosie’s room; he checked that they were secure and all was well.

In the pastel softness of Rosie’s room he paused, standing next to her cot and listening to her tiny puffing breaths. He hesitantly stretched out a hand to stroke her fine blond hair, just beginning to be long enough to curl. Her skin was warm and soft, her body boneless in slumber. The moment stretched, the cacophony behind his eyes slowing to an awareness of this tiny being, his child, asleep under his hand. He almost... almost settled back into himself, his chest clenching with a melancholy ache as he laid his hand on her back and felt the beat of her heart.

 _She’s under your hand now, but will you be able to keep her safe from your hands?_ The traitorous, noxious voice hissed. _You, who could hit her for nothing more than cereal?_

He snatched his hand back, his palm chilling rapidly in the cool air, and backed out of the room to shut the door on the sight of his daughter. “Best get to bed,” he said under his breath, heading for his own room.

His bedroom was warm and dim, deep shadows contrasted by the golden glow of the bedside lamp as he toed his shoes off in the closet and slipped out of his jacket. Funny, he’d been so out of it he hadn’t taken it off in the hallway as usual. “Hmm, lucky thing,” he murmured when the garment clunked against the door as he hung it up. He had forgotten his gun in the jacket pocket.

His hands worked by muscle memory, checking the chamber of the pistol to be sure it was clear, slipping out the clip and opening his top drawer to stow both pieces next to the bowl of odds and ends there. He paused, gaze arrested by the modest china bowl filled with the detritus of a doctor’s life. _There’s probably enough there now._ The thought crossed his mind so softly, he hardly noticed it in the howl of his self-loathing and recrimination, but it was if he could not look away. _Enough to make it stop. You’d be doing everyone a favor, really. Protecting them. From you._

At last he tore his eyes aside, but took the bowl and put it on the bed. He felt abstracted, an observer of his own actions who watched with no reaction, no emotion whatsoever. This observer-self listed the steps needed to follow through with the idea the bowl had planted, and his body executed them because it would make the shrieking in his mind and the bone-deep anguish shut up. That was all. It was the logical course to take now that his true, monstrous nature had made itself so inescapably obvious.

The crisp crackling of the packaging as it spilled tablets on the duvet went unnoticed, and the water in the glass on his bedside table was stale and tepid, but it washed down the pills without trouble. He had about half an hour before he’d start to feel it, he noted vaguely.

His laptop sat on the desk at the side of the room; kept in his bedroom away from little hands. It booted up almost silently, the whirring of the cooling fan the only noise in the deep-night silence of the flat. One thing left to do: he opened an email and began to type.

 

> “Sherlock,
> 
> This is for the best, believe me. I am a danger to you, to Rosie, to everyone. I know that now - I show it every time I react with violence to the ones I love. I almost hit my baby daughter for acting like a baby. I lost control and nearly murdered a suspect. I beat you practically to death, there on the floor in Culverton’s morgue, and then almost killed you again in my sleep just the other month. Tonight I shot you when you tried to protect me. Something is wrong with me; I hurt people. Maybe it was broken in Afghanistan, maybe it was beaten into me by my bastard of an old man, who knows? It doesn’t matter. I can’t allow anything like that to happen ever again, Sherlock. It’s not right that you should suffer so because of me, or that I should hurt people because I can’t cope.
> 
> So, I’m ending the threat now - for good. By the time you get this, it will be over.
> 
> I want you to have Rosie; there’s plenty of money in the accounts Mary left us. You are her godfather, and she could have no better protector, no better parent than you. Make Mycroft fix it if you have to. She is your daughter now. She will love you since I won’t be able to anymore, and I can see that you love her, too. You never could fool me with your sociopath act.
> 
> I said once you were the best, and the wisest man I have ever known, and the most human, human being, too. It’s true, you know. Never doubt it. I am so sorry for all the hurt I have caused you. Despite my failings as a friend and a man, you only ever wanted to help me, I know that. At least this will be the last hurt I ever cause.
> 
> John”

John’s eyelids drooped heavily and his thoughts were sluggish; the tablets had begun taking effect while he wrote and were affecting him more strongly now. He squinted blearily and opened the ‘send later’ options on his email; Sherlock usually checked his email first thing, so he needed to have some delay before it would arrive. After the night they had had, Sherlock would likely let him lie in until nine at least; plenty of time for the medication he’d taken to do its work. If he could just make the email wait until nine... he typed in ‘9’, then cuffed at his eyes before clicking ‘send.’

His hand came away wet. Was he crying? _Well, I suppose, if there ever was a time to cry, this would be it._

After a few more minutes he felt groggy and uncomfortable in his desk chair. This would never do; he should lay down, shouldn’t he? He slumped onto the bed, and his hazy mind sent a silent apology to Sherlock and to Rosie, asleep just down the hall. He settled on his back, letting his hands flop to his sides any which way. He felt the tears leak from his eyes and run down into his hair over his ears as his heavy eyelids sank closed. He was so tired. It would be nice to get some sleep, some rest. To stop for a while.

A minute later (ten minutes? An hour?) he heard a muffled shout through the door which his foggy brain barely processed. There was a bang, and then more noise; abruptly the brightness of the overhead light made him frown despite his closed eyes. Someone slapped him urgently on the cheek, raising him to a sitting position.

“John, can you hear me? John!” Sherlock’s deep voice was frantic; rough hands shook him, trying to rouse him from the stupor of the drugs. “Amina! Dial 999 immediately!” Sherlock roared out the door. A female voice gave an unintelligible answer. “Tell them to bring an overdose kit! John, goddammit! Wake up, John!”

John felt himself turned on his side, and then fingers were invading his mouth, sliding their way much too far toward the back of his throat. The sensation of them was intensely unpleasant until it was unbearable, and his stomach heaved while his teeth clamped down on the intruding fingers. They did not disappear, though; they continued to tickle until he heaved again, bringing up a flood of bitter-tasting liquid, thin with water and peppered with white, melting tablets.

“That’s it, John. We need to get this out of you.” Again and again he retched, until only a small trickle of fluid dripped from him. Blearily he wondered if anyone had placed a basin; otherwise he was vomiting all over his bedroom floor. The notion made him whimper weakly as a soft cloth wiped his mouth.

“Oh god, John,” he was again lifted to a sitting position, but this time to be held tightly against a wiry chest, a long-fingered hand stroking through his hair. “John, please,” a warm kiss landed on his cheek, another on his lips - _that must not be very nice_ , he thought muzzily. “Please, stay, John, stay with me. Don’t leave me like this. Not like this, John.”

 _Sherlock is crying,_ John thought. _Sherlock kissed me, and he is crying._ John rested against Sherlock’s shoulder, rocked gently by the quiet sobs of his best friend, who was begging him to stay, please, don’t go; _I’m sorry, Sherlock. I wish I could._

He slipped away into the darkness.


	6. The Perils of Loneliness

There was a beeping by his head. Was his alarm going off? The sound was intensely irritating, but John couldn’t seem to muster the strength to reach out and turn it off.

The light was too bright; it bled through his eyelids in a reddish glow, and the beeping sound was speeding up. His tongue was dry, his throat was sore. Had he been ill? Caught a fever, maybe? He tried to summon some saliva to his mouth, with little success. His eyes fluttered open, then squinted immediately closed against the searing light.

Next to him, he heard a gasp of in-drawn breath, and a shadow fell across his face as someone blocked the lights by leaning over him. “John?” Sherlock’s usually resonant voice was ragged with exhaustion, and tight with something John had never heard in it before.

John opened his eyes to tight slits, to see Sherlock’s silhouette looming over him, shielding him from some of the light, but not enough. “S’bright,” John croaked, his voice barely a whisper with the dryness in his throat.

“John,” Sherlock breathed reverently, relief clear in his tone. “Thank god. Just keep your eyes shut for now,” he said gently. John was only too happy to comply; he heard the rustling as Sherlock moved, then the tapping of his shoes across the room.

“John is awake, send one of those pastel-clad minions to get the doctor! And somebody show me how to dim the bloody lights!” Sherlock demanded loudly. His footsteps came rapidly back toward the bed, and John felt a cold hand wrap around his own, handling it as carefully as if it were a bird. “Someone will make it less bright in here in a moment, John. Just hang on.”

John blew a tired example of a snort. “Making friends,” John tried to say, though no sound came out this time.

He heard a rustling again, then a straw was pressed to his lips. “Here, can you drink a little of this? It’s very dry in here, and you were intubated for a time.”

John frowned. Intubated? He sipped a little water, and its lukewarm slide over his parched tissues felt lovely. He hummed a bit with relief and took another, stronger pull at the straw, and then it was removed. Intubated? What had happened? He cast his mind back. The last thing he remembered was...

Oh god. Taking pills, sending an email. Sherlock... crying?

He had tried to kill himself, and failed. Sherlock had thwarted him. Saved him.

Oh, dear god.

He felt his face crumple, tears starting to leak from his eyes. What must everyone think of him now? Can’t even do this one final thing right.

The hand gripping his tightened. “John,” Sherlock said quietly, “It’s alright, you’ll be alright.”

John rocked his head on the pillow in denial. He was a wreck, and a monster, and a failure, and nothing would ever be right again.

“The Naloxone you were given lists crying as a side effect. Of course, given the email you sent, you may be upset to still be alive. It’s understandable. You have your pride; when you decide to do a thing you must do it well or not at all. And yet here you are, and while I can understand it, I cannot sympathize, John. In this instance, I am glad you cocked it up. I could wish you hadn’t decided to do it at all, but I won’t presume to tell you what to think. I’m just thankful I got to you in time.”

John didn’t want to hear it. Sherlock, being so very much himself, dispassionately deconstructing John’s feelings about the lowest point in his life. Getting it mostly right, but wrong enough that the familiar exasperation was frothing in John’s chest, ready to bloom into anger like it always did. Yet he lacked the energy to make the effort and merely lay there in his hospital bed, tears silently streaming down his cheeks. And so he heard, again, that undefinable tightness in Sherlock’s voice as he rattled on. _What is that?_

He risked cracking an eyelid for a peek. Sherlock’s face was haggard and grey with fatigue, and he held himself like John had seen so many families at the bedsides of their loved ones. Excessively careful not to cause more hurt but desperate for contact, or to see some flicker of recognition from the person so still in the bed. And now that John was back, Sherlock’s eyes were suspiciously bright as his mouth attempted to hide the brimming sentiments with noise.

_I did that to him._ John couldn’t watch. He closed his eyes again. _He cares about me._

The nurses came in to bustle about, taking blood pressure and oxygen levels and checking catheters and IV lines. Someone showed Sherlock how the lights worked; which he declared ‘incredibly stupid,’ but then spent several minutes fiddling with to find just the right combination of upward-facing wall sconces and dimmed ceiling light, until John could open his eyes without discomfort.

Perhaps it was the anti-opiate they had given him causing all these tears, but John lay passively in bed, eyes overflowing, as all around him people worked for his comfort and care. And beside him, his best friend castigated and browbeat the workers, eventually chasing them from the room, then returned to offer quiet reassurance to John. “Thank god they’re gone,” Sherlock said, shooting a glare at the door closing behind the last nurse, who had gone pale at Sherlock’s revelation of her office supply theft as a ploy to get her to just go already. “I could hardly hear myself think.”

Sherlock offered John a cup of water with a straw without asking, and when John was done sipping, he took John’s limp hand again, clasping it more firmly. “Rest now, John. Amina has young Watson in hand, and I will be here when you wake up.”

Somehow the words allowed John to gain a little distance from the immediacy of what he had tried to do, and what he had failed to do, and that this man had literally saved his life. Though he was mortified, and not at all convinced he should have been saved, he found himself grateful for this moment. “Thanks,” he slurred as he drifted off.

He felt a gentle hand brush his fringe back from his forehead. “Sleep, John.” He fell asleep to the sensation of long fingers stroking his hair.  

~~oOo~~   

Over the next 24 hours or so, John woke sporadically: to a nurse taking his pulse, to someone changing the IV fluids, to the routine checks of a hospital patient. John remembered this part of the process from his shoulder wound; hospitals kept body and soul together until it was stable enough to go somewhere else and heal. While actually in hospital, there were constant interruptions of sleep, temperatures that were too hot or too cold, and desert-dry, filtered, conditioned air keeping mucus membranes parched and sore and making one constantly thirsty. While he professionally appreciated the work hospital staff did, it was never enjoyable to be a patient. God, how he hated hospitals from this side of the bed.

Every time he awoke, Sherlock was there as he had promised; holding John’s hand, or sitting by his bed texting, or, this last time, asleep with his head pillowed on the bed next to John’s leg. John hated to wake him; it was rare that he slept at all, let alone in such circumstances, but the man would have a horrible crick in his neck if he continued in that position for very long. John’s hand met Sherlock's head carefully, not wanting to startle his sleeping friend too badly. The hair against his palm was lovely and soft, curls slipping to tickle the thin skin between his fingers. He stroked it again, marveling at the texture.

Sherlock began to stir, and emitted a purring sort of yawn. He rolled his head under John’s hand, forehead sliding on the mattress until he was facing toward John, and sleepily smiled. He made no move to get out from under the fingers against his scalp. “Hello,” he said, and drew in a big sighing breath. “You’re awake.”

“Yeah,” John said, caught suddenly wrong-footed, petting a grown man while in hospital. He casually retracted his hand back to his lap, trying to disregard the tingling in his fingertips. “You’ll get a pain in your neck if you sleep like that for long.”

“Hmmm, you’re right,” Sherlock pushed himself up to sitting, then stood to stretch - long arms up over his head, hands almost brushing the ceiling.

_Christ, he goes on for miles,_ John thought, wishing he too could have a decent stretch. His legs still felt weak, and exhaustion kept him supine, though the bed had been raised so he could sit up.

“Would you like more water? The nurse said they’d bring you something to eat whenever you wanted.” Sherlock came back with the ubiquitous cup-and-straw, and John obediently sipped. Another feature of hospital stays John abhorred; eating and drinking became the highlight of your days. Even using the toilet was an event. When nothing was happening to you, anything you could occupy your mind with assumed increased importance to stave off the boredom.     

_Wonder if that’s what it’s like for Sherlock all the time? No wonder he’s such a dick about it._ John had been in hospital for less than two days and most of that asleep, and he was already getting a little stir-crazy.    

So it was with some hopeful interest that John noted the entrance of a white-coated person, likely his physician, who closed his door as she entered. He breathed a sigh of relief - he had worried his doctor would be someone he knew, either from his job at the surgery or in his work with Sherlock. This woman was tall and thin, and about six months pregnant; radiant with good health and solemn with her duty. “Hello, I’m Doctor Harrington,” she said. “How are you feeling, Doctor Watson?”

Sherlock silently stood and waved Dr Harrington to his chair; John gave her points for ignoring him and crossing to stand at John’s bedside. “It’s John, please. I’m a little weak, still,” he said, “But already sick of being here.” He flashed her his most charming smile; it was good policy to be friendly to the ones who prescribed your meds.

“Yes, well,” she shot John an understanding glance, and smiled at Sherlock’s snort. “Your body has had a hard time of it, so the weakness is to be expected. Your partner,” she indicated Sherlock, “did well to get those pills out of you as quickly as he could, but you had to be given three doses of Naloxone to clear the opiates from your system. That’s hard on your liver and kidneys, as I’m sure you understand. We’ll want to keep you here for another day to make sure you’re in the clear, and then you’ll need to decide what to do next.”

“I can go home tomorrow? That’s sooner than I thought,” John exclaimed, grinning widely. Dr Harrington did not share his smile. John turned to Sherlock, expecting to see his friend’s relief at getting them out of there so quickly; instead the pale grey eyes regarded him gravely. Sherlock said nothing.

Dr Harrington cleared her throat quietly. “John, you were admitted to A&E with a deliberate overdose, after leaving a suicide note. It’s inadvisable for you to return home without further assessment and treatment. You and your family can arrange for a private rehabilitation stay at a qualified mental health facility, or we can arrange an inpatient stay through the NHS, but I think it will be some time before you go home.”

John’s thoughts screeched to a halt; for a moment there was silence, both in the room and in his head. “What?” he said, his voice coming out small through the tight feeling in his throat. Not go home? For how long? Was he being committed? Sectioned?

No one spoke for a long moment, then Sherlock sat himself in the chair by the bedside. “Doctor, is there anything else you needed to discuss with John right now? Otherwise perhaps we could talk again later.”

John was aware of Dr Harrington’s murmur of agreement, and of her leaving the room, the door closing with a seemingly thunderous ka-chunk! like the clanging of a cage. Somehow being left with only Sherlock soothed his shock - which left plenty of rein for his anger. “You’re having me _sectioned_ ,” he spat. “How could you do this, Sherlock? Goddammit! I won’t stay! You can’t make me!”

Sherlock remained impassive to John’s words, merely watching him calmly, fingers steepled in the familiar gesture.

“Do you hear me? Don’t give me that blank stare, Holmes, you know you could get me out of here if you wanted to. So, I’m what - too broken to let out? Too unstable? If that’s how you felt all along you might as well have not tried so hard to drag me here in the first place! I’d not be a problem then...” John’s ire drained away over the course of his rant and he sank back against the pillow, despair enveloping him. He squeezed his eyes shut against the tears that threatened _\- again! Christ -_  and tried to slow his panicked breathing. When he regained some of his composure, he merely lay limply, strength sapped and limbs heavy.

Only then did his friend respond, his voice pleading and tired. “John, there are people who love you, who need you. Is it so surprising that I - that we would want to take care of you until you are better? Not thirty-six hours ago, you tried to end your life, and it’s only that you made a mistake delaying your email that allowed me to get to you in time.”

He leaned forward in the chair, and attempted to take John’s hand; John snatched it away and scowled. Sherlock blew a stray curl off his forehead and continued in a harder tone. “So, yes, we are going to make sure you don’t have the chance to hurt yourself until you can be trusted not to do it again!” Sherlock pierced John with his pale eyes, as if willing him to understand, to forgive, to jump right up and be fine again. _Not bloody likely, mate._

“I don’t have much choice, do I?” John asked bitterly. The gloomy fatigue that had been waiting at the edges of his anger surged up, draining him of any energy to continue talking.   “Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to be alone.”

Sherlock recoiled as if he’d been slapped. “John-”

“No, Sherlock, just now I don’t want to... just go, Sherlock. Go home, get some sleep.” John pressed the button to lower the head of the bed; when he was laid flat again, he heaved onto his side, back turned to his friend. Silence fell for another moment, then a tentative hand landed on his shoulder. He shook it off.

“Go,” he repeated, the word muffled in his pillow, tears spilling at last. He couldn’t bear to have Sherlock see him weep again.

With a long, shuddering sigh, Sherlock said “alright, John. I’ll come back tomorrow.” The sad note in Sherlock’s voice added to the tightness in John’s chest; everything seemed to be affecting him that way. John heard the rustling of fabrics as Sherlock donned his greatcoat, then slow footsteps across the room and the clunking of the door.

Despite the noise of a busy hospital all around him, it was very quiet. He did his best to sleep so he didn’t have to listen to his thoughts. They were not pleasant.   

~~oOo~~

By the next morning, John was seriously regretting asking to be left alone. All night, he would start to drift off and then snap awake, little replays of events that had led to him being stuck in this drab hospital plaguing him with their recriminations.

Sherlock, a band of dark bruises around his throat.

A bowl of bland gruel bouncing off the cabinets to the sound of Rosie’s frightened cries.

The suspect he had beaten, whimpering on the ground.

Sherlock, groaning on the floor of a cold morgue as he was kicked.

Mary’s dying face and words of love - his cynical questioning of their truth as she slipped away.

Sherlock, _crying._

The clock on the wall read 6:37 AM when John opened crusted eyes after the latest round of his mental ‘Worst of Watson’ reel, and he groaned out loud. He had not managed to sleep longer than half an hour at a time. He hauled himself to sitting on the edge of the bed, gingerly setting bare feet on the cold floor with a curse and dropping his face in his hands.

At that moment, the door opened, and Sherlock half-stepped in; pausing to speak to someone out in the hallway. He crossed the floor to stand in front of John, observing him minutely to ascertain his state. John looked up at him in turn, examining the familiar features as he had done so often in the past. Sherlock looked like he had not had a much better night than John, dark circles showing under his eyes and drawn lines on his face.

John expected to feel irritated, but instead was washed with relief. He didn’t have to tell Sherlock what his night had been like, the man was reading it off him like letters on a page. No words needed.

“Good morning, John,” Sherlock said. “I won’t ask how you slept. Do you need anything?”

“I was getting up for the loo,” John said, and discovered it was true; he needed the toilet rather urgently. He leaned forward to stand, and wobbled precariously while his legs remembered what they were for. Sherlock lunged forward to catch him by the elbows and steady him. John felt a draft of cool air across his bum - he was only wearing a hospital gown, open at the back. He scrabbled at the fabric to pull it around him again.

When John looked up, Sherlock was obviously trying not to smile. John made an inarticulate growling noise and tottered off to the loo in the corner with as much dignity as he could muster while clutching a rolling IV stand in one hand and pulling thin fabric over his bare arse in the other. He pretended not to hear the snorted chuckle that followed him.

When he returned, Sherlock had set himself up in a guest chair pulled close to the bed. John clambered back onto the mattress and leaned wearily against the pillows.

Sherlock surprised him by capturing his hand firmly in his enormous grasp, long fingers engulfing almost the entirety of John’s smaller palm and sturdy fingers. Scintillating eyes searched his face for a quiet minute, while brows drew down in concentration. The usually eloquent genius seemed to struggle for words. “John,” he said seriously. “I know you don’t want to talk about it, but we must discuss what Dr Harrington said to you yesterday.”

John tensed against the pillows, a muscle in his cheek bunching as he clenched his jaw against the groan of negation that wanted to blurt out. His instinctive pulling back was stymied by the suddenly tight grip Sherlock held on his hand, and his friend’s face was arranged in a pleading shape that John had only ever seen him sham before. Somehow this expression was different; John knew it reflected real feeling on Sherlock’s part.

“John, please,” Sherlock said, and that tight note was back in the deep baritone, a crack in the smooth velvet sound that revealed profound concern.

_For me,_ John realized. The wind deflated from the sails of his denial, his wish to ignore the things that were happening until they just went away. He had to face it, at least with Sherlock sitting there looking so earnest. John nodded shortly.

Sherlock sighed a little with relief, a hint of a smile crossing his face. “You understand that you shouldn’t go home when you’re released from here,” he began. John nodded again. “Good. I’ve talked to Mycroft, and his people have arranged for you to stay in a private clinic not too far from your flat. In the same part of the suburbs, at least. It’s been cleared by his security monkeys and has many amenities. As well, you can have visitors.”

Sherlock paused, perhaps expecting John to have questions. John nodded yet again, then passively waited for him to resume talking; nothing he had said was a surprise, except perhaps that Sherlock had unbent enough to go to Mycroft for help.

A look of sheepish uncertainty crossed Sherlock’s face. “Actually, speaking of visitors, I was expecting to have a harder time convincing you that this course would be for the best. Your constancy is usually a strength but in this case stubbornness will not serve; so I brought the ‘big guns.’”

Sherlock’s air quotes were dramatically affected and intended to make John smile, which it did, faintly. “Hang on a moment, I’ll be right back.” He hopped up from the chair and headed to the door, again speaking to someone out in the hallway. Then he was stepping backwards into the room and holding arms out to receive Rosamund Watson, sleepy and soft, clad in a mint-green fleece romper. Behind him, Amina slipped into the room, smiling ‘hello’ at John and dropping a bulging diaper bag on the floor by the wall before plopping into the other guest chair and pulling out her phone to fiddle with.  

The bottom dropped out of John’s stomach at the sight. _Oh god, Rosie - why did they bring you here? You shouldn’t see me like this._

Sherlock sat back into the chair by the bed, careful not to jostle the drowsing baby too much. “Well, Watson, here’s your Daddy. See? He’s going to be fine.” And he leaned in, clearly intending to pass her over to John’s arms. John wasn’t ready; turning his head away, he gasped for breath and his heart started to pound - which was announced to the room by the monitor above his head beeping double time. He pressed back against the pillows and held up his hands in a warding-off gesture.

Sherlock seemed unsurprised, but was having none of it. His lips tightened to a thin line and he said sternly, “John, take your daughter.”

John shook his head in negation - _I can’t, I can’t, don’t make me_ \- and squeezed his eyes shut, not able to look at the innocent person he had almost deprived of a father not two days ago. _A shit father, but the only one she gets, and her mother already gone._

With a clank of the rail, he felt a weight push down the mattress at his side. When he opened his eyes, Sherlock was perched next to him, Rosie on his lap regarding John with dawning delight. She reached for him.

With a sense of resigned sorrow, he took her and laid her against his chest. How could he refuse with her right there? Asking for him? The small body was unexpectedly solid; she looked so frail, he was always surprised at how firm her tiny form actually was. The weight of it on him felt grounding; he could hear his heart rate slowing on the monitor. Words tumbled from him, reflexively. “Hallo, lovey, how have you been? Making messes for Amina to clean up?”

He glanced up to catch Sherlock absolutely beaming at him. The man looked so satisfied John wondered if he had won a bet or something; it made John a little wary. “What,” he snapped peevishly. Sherlock grinned wider, that ridiculous smile that stretched his face when he was particularly pleased.

John’s snort of irritation stirred Rosie’s blond curls, and she made a giggly little cooing sound and wriggled against his chest, pressing her face into the crook of his neck. He instinctively covered her back with his hand, feeling the pull of the IV cannula in his skin and grimacing at the pain. He switched hands, moving the IV one to her bottom with less pulling on the tubing, and supporting her back with his free hand. She seemed happy to settle there and rest with minimal fussing.

The mattress rocked again as Sherlock got up. “Amina and I are going to find the canteen and bring you some tea; whatever they’ll bring on the tray will be horrible, no doubt. We shan’t be long.” Before John could summon a rejoinder, the door was closing behind them.

“I bet they set that up between them, didn’t they, sweetheart?” John grumbled, reclining back against the pillows so as to more easily support the baby’s weight on his chest. “Just like them to bring you here and then faff off somewhere for god knows how long.” He sighed. “I just wish they hadn’t brought you so soon, y’see. I’m not very good company at the moment.”

Rosie seemed content to listen to his voice as it vibrated in his ribcage; she sighed a puffing little breath into the skin over his throat. It tickled. As he fell silent, she rubbed her face against him a bit to find a more comfortable spot to lay her head, then sighed faintly and started drowsing again. John wondered if Sherlock had roused Amina and Rosie at 6AM to bring them here, or if they had already been up. He hoped the latter; he already felt embarrassed enough at the trouble he had caused them.

Rosie was warm on his chest, her limbs relaxed and limp as she snoozed. John could smell her under his chin; that undefinable baby-smell that was so sweet. He remembered being amazed by that fragrance when he and Mary had brought her home; he’d sit in a chair with her and just breathe it. “Bonding pheromones,” Mary had said. “You’re bonding to her.”

And he had; though he’d never dreamed he’d be a parent - it just hadn’t been on his radar, not the least bit - once he had this little being in his life he had been captivated by everything she did. Her smallest sound, her smell, her wee hand grasping his finger with surprising strength, all sank their way deep into his heart.

And then he lost Mary - for all her faults, she had been a confident mother; but it meant the responsibility for Rosie’s future weighed heavily on him. Just John Watson. What did he know about parenting, with his family life growing up? How to duck a swing, hide a bruise, act like everything was peachy. How to hate his old man, that fucking bastard. What could he teach Rosie of that?

And he had gone right down the same path - lashing out when he couldn’t cope. What kind of father would do that? To his baby girl?

He pulled in a shaky breath laden with Rosie’s scent, and flashed to a memory of himself as a small boy.

_Dark, huddled with the covers over his ears, snuggled warm in bed, cracked door letting in just a little yellow light and the faint sound of the telly. Outside, a thunderstorm was blowing up, bursts of light brightening the room at random intervals. Until he was ten or so, John had been terrified of storms. This one was getting louder by the moment, flashes coming faster and faster. He let out a tiny whimper when a particularly loud thunderclap sounded nearby, and the patch of light at the door widened as his father came in._

_John had already learned of his father’s uncertain moods, and he burrowed down into the duvet to hide his fear. A large body sat on the edge of his bed and a wide hand landed, gently, on his shoulder. “Shhhh, Johnno, it’s all right. Just some noise, and some light, and it will be over in no time.” Another crack, and he flinched._

_“Ah, now, John.” He was gathered up into a broad chest and held tightly, rocked softly, murmured words blunting the fear. He felt protected, warmed with his father’s care. His father soothed him until the storm had passed, then lay him back down and settled the covers over him._

_“No shame in being afraid, John. We’re all afraid sometimes.” With a last tousle of John’s hair, his father wished him goodnight and left the room._

_The next time there was a thunderstorm, his father didn’t come; he was at the pub. John put his head under the covers and wished with all his might for the father that had helped him._

_That piercing feeling of deprivation came again and again throughout his young life; wanting to be held, cherished, by his father - not the beast his father turned into more and more._

John lifted his head, abruptly realizing Rosie was squirming against him, protesting the tightness of his hold. He relaxed his arms and she quieted. John dropped his head back to the pillows, face stretching back into a grimace as he - yet again - tried to hold back tears, and failed.

That feeling of loss, of loneliness, was still in his chest, throbbing underneath his daughter’s cheek. His daughter. Which made him her father. (Somewhere in John’s mind, a deep voice intoned “obviously, John.”) His lip twitched in a fleeting half-smile.

_If I had... succeeded - would Rosie have wondered if I loved her, same as I did with my Dad? Wondered if I had - if SHE had - been more lovable, I’d have stayed? Would she blame herself?_     

John felt sick. He snuggled the baby more closely against himself and rubbed her back with his hand.

_Oh god... oh, Rosie. I’m so sorry._

He wasn’t sure how much time passed while he clung to his baby girl and wept, but by the time the door opened and Sherlock’s curly head poked in, he was utterly exhausted and the baby was asleep. John was almost asleep himself, salty tracks down his cheeks as he slumped back on the inclined slope of the bed, Rosie firmly held close. The sound of the door roused him enough to open one eye, and he was able to glimpse Sherlock schooling his expression back to its usual sober neutrality.

But he was sure he had seen it, absolutely certain. Sherlock Holmes, wearing a watery, tremulous smile that spoke of deep relief. Perhaps the man hadn’t believed that Rosie could have such a profound effect on John. Perhaps he was just glad she had.

Either way, John had just seen what true sentiment looked like on his friend’s face. _It’s beautiful,_ John thought. _He’s beautiful._

He closed his weary eyes to the sound of Sherlock approaching the bed, settling next to them in his chair.


	7. If I Liked What You Played

The next morning, Sherlock was there with Rosie in his arms, when John was released. They hadn’t discussed where John was going any further, rather they just both assumed he would be going there and proceeded with it as a given. Dr Harrington had come by very early, and was visibly pleased to hear that John had come around on the matter of continued inpatient treatment. She also was happy to meet Rosie, who eyed her round belly with amazement.

“You were in your Mum’s belly before you were born, too, sweetie,” Dr Harrington said. Rosie responded to the tone though John knew she probably didn’t know what was being said.

“That’s true,” John agreed, “before your Mum passed, she carried you in her belly just like that.”

Dr Harrington shot him a surprised look. “Her Mum is gone?”

“Yes, a few months ago.”

“Hmm,” was all she said, but John could hear the judgment; mother dead, father tries to suicide, nice. He tried not to cringe visibly.

Sherlock, hovering near the bed like an attentive, well-dressed guard dog, came to his rescue. “Perhaps we could return to the matter at hand, Doctor? What needs to happen to allow John to be released from here and moved on to the facility?”

Dr Harrington gave one more long look at Rosie before returning her mind to the business at hand, then began briskly listing off paperwork that needed to be signed, confirmation that needed to be received, and one more thing...

“John, I think you should seriously consider an antidepressant regime, while you’re in care, certainly, and also afterward when you go home.”

John scowled. While he was no psychiatrist, after seeing the loads of patients at the surgery who had an antidepressant in their daily medications list, he was of the private opinion they were massively over-prescribed. He was uncomfortable with the idea of trying to medicate his happiness, though he knew he was over-simplifying the concept.

“John,” Sherlock chimed in, “I’ve been doing some research on this, and I think you should at least think about it.”

“Ha,” John said. “You just like it because it’s chemistry, but it’s my brain that will be messed with, Sherlock.”

“I’m no stranger to tinkering with my brain chemistry, John, as you well know.”

“Yeah, or mine...” John grumbled under his breath. Sherlock glowered at him for a moment, then turned back to Dr Harrington, who had observed them impassively. She was fully aware that she could not force John, since he was voluntarily agreeing to continued treatment. If he were being sectioned, then she would call the shots. But in this case, he’d do better to come to a treatment plan that he had a part in devising.

“We’ll let that decision wait until we get there, Doctor. Thank you for your advice,” Sherlock supplied.

Dr Harrington didn’t miss the unconscious ‘we’ in that statement; though she’d been apprised of John’s relationship status, (more precisely, the lack of one) she couldn’t help but notice the diligent care Sherlock had been showing for his friend. She wished him all the luck in the world; they would not have an easy road. “Of course. Well, you’ll be on your way in a few hours, and they’ll get you settled in the facility. Lucky you, I’m told you have your own room. How long you will be there isn’t clear at the moment; it will depend on a lot of factors, not least your own attitude and progress in your counseling.”

She wished John luck and continued improvement, and he wished her luck with impending motherhood. Both of them laughed at the way Rosie’s tiny fingers got caught in Dr Harrington’s necklace as she indulged in one more cuddle; even Sherlock flashed his fleeting smile at the charming picture.

When the door shut behind her, Sherlock and Rosie settled back into the chair by the bedside, where he produced a set of plastic keys on a ring from a pocket to entertain the girl. She was happy to manipulate them and mouth at them while Sherlock and John regarded each other in silence.

“I should take Watson back to Amina,” Sherlock ventured after a while.

“Yeah.”

“I could come back, after?”

“You don’t have to,” John offered, though the prospect of crushing loneliness drained conviction from the statement. “You’ve done so much already.”

Sherlock reached over and grasped John’s forearm where it lay on the mattress. “You’d do the same, in my place, I have no doubt.” His brief, genuine smile showed again for an instant, and John felt a warm clench in his chest, followed by inevitable guilt.

_But I didn’t - I let you almost kill yourself with drugs. I kicked you on the floor. I left you to be tormented by a murderer._

Sherlock’s sharp gaze seemed to follow his train of thought, and the lean face slid into a frown. “You have not been yourself, John. Not since Mary...” he looked down and coughed uncomfortably. “Well. Don’t judge yourself too harshly.”

John looked at Sherlock with astonishment. “Don’t judge? Sherlock, by any objective standard, after what I’ve done to you, you should be running as fast and as far as you can. Why? Why on Earth are you still here?” John’s anguish resurged forcefully, and his expression twisted with it; regret, self-loathing, anger all mixed together in a poisonous stew. He hunched forward and hid his face behind his hands as his eyes filled to overflowing. _Crying again, Watson? It’s like that’s all you do anymore. Jesus christ, get ahold of yourself!_

A moment passed, and then the mattress at his side dipped; Sherlock perching there with Rosie in one arm, the other coming around to pull him against Sherlock’s warm chest, slipping up his spine to curl around the nape of his neck. Rosie chirped and snuggled in close, her colorful plastic keys clacking.

“I hate repeating myself, John, you know this,” Sherlock heaved a mighty sigh. “But we might all just be human - even you.” The wiry arm at John’s back tightened and he spoke quietly, carefully. “Isn’t it time to stop beating yourself up for it?” Sherlock took a long, slow breath; John felt his ribcage expand and subside. “It’s not like I haven’t been a shit friend to you in times past, and you came back, you let me back in. Perhaps we’re even, and can go on from here?”  

In the face of this wisdom, John lost his desperate bid to remain stoic. He sobbed into Sherlock’s shoulder, his arms slipping around the lean torso, clinging pitifully while something deep down, full of fetid, spiraling recrimination and inward-focused hatred, cracked open and in the tiniest trickle, drop by slow, minuscule drop, began to drain away.

Eventually his outburst subsided, leaving him exhausted again. He leaned limply in the wet patch he had left on Sherlock’s shoulder, and breathed in and out deeply. Sherlock wore a pine-infused, spicy cologne that teased his nose and the solid body beneath his cheek was warm and comforting. He hadn’t been held like this, sheltered and accepted, much at all in his adult life.  _Can only remember one other time, really, and that was Sherlock, too._ John was always the caretaker, the strong one, the provider of comfort, by profession or by circumstance. Either that, or he was manfully refusing comfort when things got hard because he thought he shouldn’t need it. So this hug felt new, and actually quite lovely. Relief was not a true enough descriptor for the light, released feeling inside him at this moment. He could stay like this forever.

Sherlock seemed content to allow John to remain where he was. His friend breathed slowly, cheek resting lightly on the top of John’s head, his one-armed hold firm yet not stifling, long fingers idly stroking the back of John’s neck. The silence stretched, peaceful and undemanding.

Rosie was another story. She squawked and wiggled after a few minutes, ready to be doing something else. Her fidgeting brought reality crashing down onto John - embarrassment, bred into him by generations of British fortitude, asserted itself and caused him to spring away. “God, I’m so sorry,” he stuttered, “I’ve got you all damp, Sherlock, sorry.” He cuffed away the moisture on his face and snatched a tissue from the bedside table to blow his nose.

Sherlock hopped back to his chair with alacrity, color high on his cheeks. He fussed over Rosie, making faces to distract her, and started gathering up the inevitable litter of a small child: toys, a stray sock, thick-paged brightly colored books. “Yes, well, it’s fine, John, not to worry. I’ll just get her back to Amina.”

He hustled over to the corner to collect the nappy bag, and in moments had Rosie all packed up, jacket and shoes on and ready to go. He headed for the door with a sort of wild-eyed briskness, informing Rosie that yes, they were going back home and yes, there would likely be lunch waiting.

John watched all this with amusement coupled with dismay. When it seemed like Sherlock would get out the door without another word to John, he blurted, “Sherlock -”

Sherlock paused in the doorway, eyebrows raised in inquiry.

“You’ll um... you’ll come back later?” John asked.

Sherlock smiled, that sincere expression that softened his face and deepened the crows’ feet by his eyes. “Of course.”

John coughed. “That’s,” he averted his face, suddenly embarrassed all over again. “Great, Sherlock, thanks.”

Sherlock nodded, and stepped out into the hall. Before he had fully disappeared, John called, “And bring some decent tea, for chrissake!”

He heard the deep chuckle just before the door closed with a clunk, and lay back against his pillows, smiling.

~~oOo~~

John’s transfer from the A&E observation unit to the rehab facility was as tedious and uneventful as he expected: paperwork, getting dressed, rolling out in a wheelchair - god how he hated that part. It made him feel decrepit.

Only Sherlock’s imperious, snarky comments kept him from slipping into a truly dark mood; the man bossed people around like it was his right, and then was so honestly surprised when they were offended by it. John had always found his bafflement inexplicably charming, and this was no exception.  

Upon arriving at the new facility, John suffered through getting checked in, biting his tongue through an interview with a ‘care coordinator’ - a clearly-not-natural blonde woman in pink scrubs and pink trainers with an actual pink bow on her ponytail and pink bobble earrings in her lobes. Her pink-painted nails tapped away on a tablet covered with a pink rubber sleeve, peering through pink-framed reading glasses that hung around her neck on a pink ribbon. They had cute, Japanese-styled cats on them.

John could tell Sherlock’s eyes were rolling from the first moment he saw the woman by the quality of the annoyed breath the man drew in when she bustled into the room John had been assigned. (It was indeed a single, and John didn’t know what strings were pulled or how much money Mycroft had sunk into securing it for him, but he guessed he owed the man a _serious_ favor, or at least a free pass from taking the piss for a year - possibly two) He sent his friend a ‘be _nice!’_ glare from where he rested against the pillows of the bed. Sherlock, opening drawers and cupboards and peering out the window, clearly caught the look but made no indication that he intended to heed it.

“Well, Dr Watson,” the woman chirped, “it looks like you’re getting settled in alright?” She plopped her tablet on the rolling side table near the wide window, and started typing, hardly looking up at either occupant of the room. She shot a few dirty looks out the window, seeming to be irritated by the glare, or possibly by the bright flowers and shrubs.

John thought the view rather nice. “Yes, I seem to have arrived,” he said wryly.

“That’s good. Great! Well, terrific. Now, I’m here to go over with you how your care will go for the next few days-”

“John will be seeing his psychologist tomorrow morning, and they two will determine a plan from there. Thanks, you’re done.” Sherlock interrupted rudely. “We’ll take a walk in the garden in a little while.”

The woman transferred her glare from the window to Sherlock, before looking down at her tablet again. “Well, that’s actually...” She frowned. “Correct.” She narrowed her eyes at Sherlock again, and tipped the tablet up so he couldn’t see the screen. “Your appointment with Dr Evans is tomorrow at nine-thirty. Dr Watson, during your stay you are approved to walk the grounds, use the exercise room, the hot tub and the sauna, and you may have a laptop or tablet to work on, but no phones and no Internet. Contact with the outside will be monitored.”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock snapped loudly, flailing his hands about and beginning to pace. “We knew all this walking in! Now, if you want to get back to trying to impress your ex-boyfriend on the groundskeeping staff with your ‘improved, younger look’” his air quotes were delivered with savage sarcasm, “so that he’ll reconsider throwing you over for the twenty-something in catering, we will get on with the business of resting without your moronic presence raising our blood pressure. THANK YOU!”

The woman spluttered her outrage for a minute or so, then muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “looks like the wrong one is the patient,” and stomped out of the room, pink tablet clutched to a pink bosom, fingers white with the tightness of her grip.

John sighed. Clearly, Sherlock’s tolerance for the inactivity of the healing process was waning.

Sherlock had stalked to the door and shut it pointedly on the woman’s pink-shod heels. Then he whirled and groaned in a theatrical way, returning to John’s bedside and slumping in the guest chair pulled up close. He rolled his head against the chair back until it pointed in John’s direction. “I’m having second thoughts about this place after meeting that... person,” he complained. “Perhaps Mycroft is having his little joke, putting you here where the staff has been so carefully vetted by his people. It would be like him to instruct them to vex me incessantly.” Sherlock’s face settled into a petulant frown as he contemplated his brother’s possible culpability in the pink nurse’s irritating presence.

John privately agreed that Sherlock’s brother was a complete tit, but he doubted that even Mycroft would be so petty in a situation like this. Like the one John had _put_ Sherlock in, by obliging him to ask favors from his brother, the man who hoarded them like treasure and called them in for reasons clear only to himself. John cringed a little inside at the thought.

Sherlock popped back upright in the chair and rubbed his hands together. “Alright then, what shall we do? There’s sure to be some kind of intrigue happening here that we can ferret out, and that will keep us pleasantly occupied for a little while at least.”

John was comfortable in his spot against the pillows, drowsy with fatigue and the warm sunlight coming in through the big window. Just thinking about the possibility of a nap caused him to crack a huge yawn, which noticeably startled his fidgeting friend. “I dunno, Sherlock, I might want to have a bit of a nap, and then do what you suggested; just walk in the garden later.” He stifled a second yawn with the back of his hand, and continued speaking. “I don’t know if it’s wise to go digging up all the little dramas in a place like this - these people are in charge of my food and my medications, after all. It wouldn’t do to rile them up too much.”

Sherlock seemed to pause to consider John’s point, lips pursed in a cupid’s-bow pout, before he reluctantly conceded. “I suppose you’re right, but if I stumble across something really singular, really interesting, I won’t hold back on following it up.” He pulled out his mobile and swiped across the screen, preparing to log onto the WiFi, before muttering a curse when he remembered the Internet would not be available that way. He’d have to suffer the relative slowness of his cellular connection.

John watched him for a moment, nonplussed. “So...” he drawled, perplexed at his friend’s about-face willingness to sit still again, “what are you doing, now?”

Sherlock looked up from his screen, the bluish light tingeing his skin with an ethereal glow, and pursed his lips again while considering his answer. “I’m looking at my email, John,” he said, as though he wondered if John had sustained a previously unrecognized head injury, given that John had missed something so obvious.

John huffed a chuckle. “Yes, I can see that, you prat. What are you doing more generally? I thought you wanted to ferret around the facility?”

Sherlock again looked confused. “You’re going to take a nap,” he supplied.

“I had thought I would, yeah.”

“So I’m looking at my email.” Sherlock’s delivery of this pronouncement implied anyone who did not see the point of this statement was the most egregious of idiots.

John was used to ignoring the ‘idiot’ connotation. “You don’t have something to do? I dunno, a case on or something? Won’t you be bored?”

It was Sherlock’s turn to snort in amusement, and he waggled his phone in John’s direction. “I’ll be fine. I’ve got a few days’ worth to catch up on.” He leaned over to grasp John’s hand and squeeze it. “Go ahead and sleep, John.”      

John relaxed back onto his pillow and shut his eyes, too tired to do anything but take Sherlock at his word. After a few moments, he realized Sherlock had not let go of his hand, and that he was grateful for the gesture. He slipped into sleep with a faint smile on his face.

~~oOo~~

Sherlock had been with him right up until he prepared for bed - his lanky, talkative escort as they wandered the expansive gardens and a quiet companion in the room as John read a novel he had found in the ‘to share’ basket in the hall after their walk. His friend even joined him in the dining area at dinner time, though Sherlock sneered at the idea of eating what John and the four dozen or so other patients were having. John thought the baked fish with not-too-overdone green beans and rice were a cut above the usual hospital fare, but it was still institutional food, bland and impersonal. Despite this, John had some actual appetite and cleaned his plate while Sherlock sipped tea beside him and muttered deductions under his breath.

“I urge you to argue against attending the group sessions if your psychologist suggests them, John,” Sherlock said quietly, “at least three people here lack actual diagnoses and just want to talk about themselves to someone who is obliged to listen, so there is little you could gain from that. Look over there: that fellow with the yellow dressing gown, atrocious color, makes him look like he’s got a liver condition. Subtly, John, don’t stare! He’s blathering endlessly to that poor woman next to him. She’s clearly here because of a head injury, and apparently doesn’t realize her table mate never shuts up. I would have turned his plate into his lap by now, his chattering is so banal.”

John snickered into his teacup; he could picture his friend doing exactly that.

“And that woman, at the center table, with the green tracksuit and poor dye-job; she’ll be lucky if she has hair left if she keeps with that regimen. Her husband is having an affair and she thinks he’ll not leave her while she’s ill. I confess I heard her ranting to her lawyer while you were napping, so not much of a deduction there, but based on her comments, she’s only using her time here to squirrel away as much of their assets as she can before divorce proceedings begin. Not exactly a useful mirror for self-reflection in a group setting, wouldn’t you say?”

John regarded him with a raised eyebrow. “I doubt I would find anyone with a similar set of circumstances to mine, Sherlock. Unless there’s a group for anger-challenged, assassin’s widowers whose best friends came back from the dead?” John’s tone tried for jovial, yet he didn’t miss the fleeting stricken look on his friend’s face as the comment passed. Sherlock resumed his poker face in an instant, but John still felt like a heel. He sighed. “I’m sorry.”

Sherlock waved it off. “Unnecessary. Your statement is not inaccurate.”

John reached to grasp his friend’s forearm and said sadly, “And not your fault, Sherlock. It is what it is, yeah?”

Sherlock covered John’s hand with his own, putting down his tea to do so. His palm was warm and dry, and pressed John’s smaller hand firmly. “I remember,” he said softly. His gaze turned to John, pinning him with the pale-eyed stare that always seemed to see so much. “And so should you.”

They each looked aside and sat in silence a moment, Sherlock’s large hand occasionally squeezing John’s smaller one where it rested on his forearm. Around them the others were finishing their dinners, chatting or staring at their plates. It seemed to John that he and Sherlock were in a bubble of their own, separate from the hubbub, just the two of them.

He found he didn’t mind it really at all.

“Well,” Sherlock said affably after a bit, patting John’s hand then letting go, “shall we head back to your room? I assume you’ll want to forego dessert since the scintillating choices you have are mass-produced jam roly-poly, or green jelly with fruit in. Mmmm!” His dramatically wide-eyed, lip-smacking tummy-rubbing made John smirk despite himself.

“The evening’s entertainment consists of bingo with no stakes, or a screening of a recent film - a medical drama, I gather from the title, though you’d think they would choose something else for a facility like this,” and Sherlock was off out of the chair, leaving his teacup for John to collect onto his tray and bring over to the clearing station in the corner. Looking up, John shook his head; a flyer there advertised the night’s movie: “Doctor Strange.” He turned to follow his friend back to his room, biting his lip to keep his grin from breaking out.     

Sherlock seemed intent on pointing out all the deductions he had made of John’s fellow patients, and rattled on for the next hour with much waving of hands and waggling of eyebrows. John was content to listen, occasionally making a disbelieving sound to encourage Sherlock to explain his reasoning, and when he did, unable to contain his exclamations of astonishment that such little tells could inform so much.

Sherlock couldn’t hide how much he enjoyed the praise. His eyes sparkled and color graced his high cheekbones. He lounged back in the shabby guest chair, moving from topic to topic while his smile came and went and the crows’ feet by his eyes crinkled deeply with contentment.

He only wound down when John’s yawns became too wide to hide behind his hand, and then he stood to leave, buttoning his suit jacket and looking around for his coat. “I’ll let you sleep without your guard dog tonight,” he said with a self-deprecating bow, pulling his scarf from a pocket of the greatcoat and winding it around his long neck. “You’ve got your appointment tomorrow, and Amina has morning classes to teach so I’ll be with Rosamund.”

John nodded his understanding, and held out a hand for his friend to take. Sherlock’s hand enveloped his and held firmly. “Thanks, Sherlock. Today has been... well, not great. But better, with you here. I appreciate it.” John looked earnestly up at his friend, who nodded silently and regarded him, his smile weighted with a tenderness John found surprising.

“I’ll bring Watson around for a visit tomorrow afternoon, if you like?” he said after a moment, squeezing John’s hand then letting it drop as he headed for the door.

“Yeah, that would be great, I think,” John replied, dropping his eyes to his lap. “If it’s not okay, I’ll call you.” John fiddled with the tie of his dressing gown, abashed at his weakness.

“Well, then, I guess I’ll have to answer,” Sherlock replied dryly. “But just this once. You know I prefer to text.”

John snorted. “Should have gotten me better communication privileges, then, hadn’t you?”

Sherlock chuckled richly. “Indeed. Goodnight, John. Sleep well.”

“’Night Sherlock.”

The door shut after him, leaving behind a ringing quiet that John did not care to break. He realized his cheeks were a little fatigued with smiling; their conversation after dinner had been convivial and spirited. He was reminded of his early days with Sherlock, when everything the man did was new and amazing; truly his talent for noticing minutiae and determining incredible information about someone was unique and astonishing, even after all these years.

_When did it change? Sherlock is still extraordinary; what he does is a fantastic gift and he uses it to help people when he can. When did I stop saying ‘amazing,’ and start saying ‘stop showing off, you arsehole?’_

That was not hard to answer - when Sherlock had died and left John alone in a world gone dull and grey. And then, just when he’d found a modicum of peace with Mary, had started on a new path to try and move on, back his friend came: throwing a very large rock in a pond only barely calmed. John had been furious and had lashed out at Sherlock - choking him and eventually nutting him in the nose. _Huh, guess my behavior hasn’t been the best for rather a while, where Sherlock was concerned. Always him bearing the brunt of it. Always him._

John shied away from examining that idea further; a habit that had been with him for years, now. Looking too closely at what lay between him and Sherlock was not something he ever did, ever even wondered about. It just wouldn’t do to pay attention to that, it made his insides feel... weird. It always had.

Instead, he picked up the trite novel he’d been reading that afternoon, and slogged along through another few chapters before changing into the pajamas he saw Sherlock had left on the bureau, enthusiastically brushing his teeth for the first time in three days, and settling down to sleep. As he lay there in the not-quite dark, listening to the unfamiliar sounds of the facility at night, he wondered what the next morning would bring.

He’d reached his lowest point, there in his bedroom only a few nights ago, and when he awoke afterward, he had realized that he didn’t actually want to die. He was terrified by how close he had come and he was grateful to have lived, grateful that Sherlock had been able to save him. But that didn’t translate immediately into being fine. _Hell, I’m not sure I even know what fine looks like anymore. Don’t even know where to look to start figuring it out._

John settled the blankets higher against the back of his neck and rolled his head to make a comfortable indentation in his pillow, then shut his eyes firmly.

_So, start with getting some sleep, Watson. Something tells me tomorrow won’t be easy._

Like it was a magic spell, he drifted off to sleep and did not dream.


	8. Now If I Was A Holy Man

The next morning John woke to bright sunlight and the chirping of birds in a shrub outside the window. It was so different to the last few days cooped up in a windowless hospital room, that he cracked a wide grin as he put his feet to the floor. Which turned to a loud curse as the cold tiles sucked the warmth from his toes in an instant. 

“Dammit!” John exclaimed - he absolutely  _ hated _ it when his feet were cold. He skittered back on the bed, looking around for some slippers, non-slip socks - anything? Nothing presented itself at first glance. Growling a curse under his breath, he stiffened his upper lip, summoned all his manly fortitude... and gingerly, carefully, put one foot on the floor, toes first, then settled both feet down onto the chilly surface with hissed displeasure. 

He slid out of the bed and minced across the room to the bureau against the wall, where his pajamas had been stacked the night before. Muttering imprecations for medical facilities and their need for easily-cleaned flooring that in no way retained heat, John yanked open the top drawer, expecting some shoddy, thin hospital slipper-socks wrapped in plastic. Instead, there were four pairs of carefully rolled and arranged socks, and a pair of scuff slippers in smooth grey fleece. John lifted the latter out with a raised eyebrow, then noticed the note in the drawer, with a bold, recognizable signature at the bottom. 

“John - considering your hatred of cold floors, I thought these socks and slippers would suit you better than whatever the facility would offer. If you keep the socks organized, perhaps you too will experience the clarity of thought a decent sock index can provide.  

\- Sherlock”

John hurriedly trotted back to sit on the bed and pull on a pair of the socks - pale dusty rose in color, with a cushy texture and snug elastic throughout, they were exquisitely comfortable and bled away the chill in his toes nicely. He heaved a sigh of relief and gratitude, reading over the note again with a ruefully amused shake of his head. When had Sherlock even had time to find him a gift, let alone sneak it into his drawer? The man was unbelievable. 

He stepped into the scuffs, which were also lovely and soft against his feet, but tough-soled and grippy on the tiles. Sherlock had chosen well. Shaking his head in amused appreciation, John headed out to breakfast. 

Later in the morning, a nurse came to lead him to his first appointment with his psychologist, a Dr Evans. The nurse directed him to an office with another large window facing the gardens, filled with modern-looking furniture: sofa, a few armchairs, a desk and rolling office chair. John went to stand in front of the sofa as far from the desk chair as he could, shades of Davies’ gruesome end and what had followed uncomfortably brought to mind. He looked out the window at the garden, grateful for the pleasant view. 

A few minutes later, a tanned man in khakis and a pale blue button-down hustled into the room with a folder and notebook in his hand. Though clearly older than John, his warm golden brown eyes were bright, and he wore trainers in an incongruous shade of red. He was chrome-dome bald on top, and what was left of his hair around the edges was a grizzled brown, cut short, and damp as if from a shower. His cheeks were windburned and flushed above a bristly, greying beard and moustache. John noticed with his doctor’s eye a slight oddness to the man’s gait as he strode in and that he had a scar on his neck across the front, long healed to silver. John also noticed he was quite physically fit - lean and muscled, not an ounce of excess flesh on him.  

He strode over to John forthrightly and extended his hand. “John, it’s good to meet you. I’m Doctor Theodore Evans, though most people call me Duck. You can too, if you’re comfortable with it.” Duck’s words were perfectly understandable with a hint of a West Country accent, but his vocal tone was so hoarse that John grimaced involuntarily; he’d only heard that intense hoarseness in his patients who were suffering from strep throat or a similar illness. He stepped forward and shook Duck’s hand, not quite meeting his eyes as he did so. 

“I’m not a medical doctor, like you are,” Duck continued, “rather I have a PhD in psychology. And I can see from your expression that you think I have a terrible throat condition. I don’t. My voice box was damaged when I was injured in combat in Iraq in 1991. I took some shrapnel to the throat among other injuries, and was only saved from bleeding out by some of your comrades in the RAMC, who I happened to be escorting that day. I owe those medics my life.” His posture straightened and feet clicked together as he performed a crisp salute to John, who instinctively returned it with equally straight carriage. 

Duck grinned widely, showing white teeth. “As you’ve probably guessed, I’ve had some time to look over your file. Shall we sit?” he gestured to John to sit back down, and took the armchair across from him, placing the folder on a little table beside the chair. “I generally like to use our first meeting to introduce myself, talk about what I do, and why you might want to work with me.” He leaned forward earnestly toward John. “Since I’ve seen your file, I know you were admitted after a suicide attempt, and a period of depression noticeable to the people in your life.” Duck made this statement with no visible judgement or overly sentimental  posturing; just the facts, delivered with a sympathetic raise of shaggy eyebrows. “And I’d bet ten pounds you haven’t had some miraculous change of heart in the last three days, no matter what your friends and family are wishing for. So, I’ll tell you my story, and I hope you’ll come out of this wanting to work with me, John. I believe I can help you.”

John creased his own eyebrows and retorted, “I’ve had therapists before, but here I am.” He waved the wrist that still had his hospital ID tag around it, and displayed his dressing gown and slippers to indicate his circumstances. “Still-” he rolled his eyes to reinforce his snarky tone, “going it alone hasn’t worked, so I guess I’ve gotta try something.” 

Duck didn’t seem offended by John’s defensive response. “Right, and for now, I’m what there is to try. So, let me talk for a bit, and you can decide if it’s worth a shot, or if we should find someone else for you because I’m utterly full of shit. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been told that, right enough.”

Duck snorted with good humor, then regained his serious expression. “I’ve dedicated my career to working with people like me and you, John: soldiers who have seen combat and come back home. Like a lot of soldiers, I struggled with civilian life when I got back. I had a lot of healing to do, physically, and then even more to do emotionally. Like so many of us, I didn’t know how to cope, and I didn’t have much of a support structure; no siblings, parents dead before I shipped out. 

I got into trouble, got into some nasty fights in bars, got depressed, started doing drugs, you name it. I had a really short fuse, if you catch my meaning. Had a fiancée when I first got back, but she didn’t stay after the third time I smacked her in a rage. She had always been smarter than me, and knew it was just a matter of time before it was more than a smack. I was so far up my own arse by then, I hardly noticed she’d gone until the tea ran out.

I hadn’t been able to find a job, what with my voice and my other injuries, and I started having to support my drug habit with money I didn’t have. I found ways to get it that were not strictly legal, and was well on my way to jail time or worse, when I - and don’t laugh because I am dead serious here, John - I fell in love.”

John couldn’t help himself, he snorted, then tried to cover it with a cough and put a hand to his mouth to keep his incredulity hidden.  _ Oh, god, is he some sort of hippy guru type? Peace, Love and Understanding, and it’ll all be fine? Jesus christ. _

“Ha, you laughed. I’ll make it worse - it wasn’t even a human I fell in love with. It was a dog, a little puppy probably ten weeks old, that me and some mates found abandoned in a sack in an alley.”

Duck snagged a framed photo off the table beside him and passed it over, displaying a picture of a much younger Duck, grinning and down on one knee with an arm around a young dog, sporting haphazard, fluffy whitish fur with a black spot across one cheek that bled up to perked ears like a funky hairstyle. Its head was cocked inquisitively, tongue lolling, and alert brown eyes looked straight into the camera. John smiled weakly at the happy picture and passed it back.

“She charmed everyone like that, John. She was this little ball of fluff, so scared, and those bastards wanted to have some fun with her, they said. Torture her to death, they meant - I was not hanging around with nice people at the time, and I’d seen what passed for fun in their circles.

I told them to fuck right off, and I took her home. Got her set up in my flat - blanket, little doggie bowl full of crunchies, the whole bit. Named her Jezza, after this Australian helicopter pilot I knew in Iraq, had fuzzy hair like hers. He pissed in the corner just like she did a few times too, with enough pints in him. She needed constant watching or she’d chew the flex on the lamps, eat the soap in the shower, or take a shit in your shoe, that fucking little minx. 

But she also was the most loving, loyal creature I’d ever met. While she was small, I carried her around in my pocket when I went out to find my high, and more than once I woke up from a trip with her standing on my chest, barking and growling at the wankers who wanted to rifle my pockets. Later she came with me everywhere I went. She’d sleep next to me at night, and be the first thing I saw when I woke up. 

Until that one time, when I was a little higher than usual, and I didn’t wake up as quickly as usual. Instead I came to just as some bunch of street trash had Jezza by the scruff and were about to cut her throat right next to me, then maybe cut mine too. Who knows? I shouted and waded in punching until they dropped her. Then me and her scarpered right quick. 

When we got back to the flat, she was still terrified, shivering and plastered to my side. Wouldn’t even let me have a slash without her pressed up to the back of my legs. I went to give her some food, but we were out. And I was broke, didn’t have a pound on me, ‘cuz I’d spent it on the drugs. 

That was the night I realized that I had to make a choice. I could keep getting high, or I could keep Jezza, but not both. And I loved her, John. I didn’t much care about myself, but that bloody dog was everything to me. She made my life worth living.

So I tried to get clean. It wasn’t easy, and I fucked it up proper more than once, but in the end I managed. Got hooked up with a veterans’ group. Started talking with others who had been like me - good soldiers who came home and couldn’t quite settle back into regular life. We all had problems: nightmares, anger, lashing out, depression, drug use, abusiveness, maybe even trouble keeping a job and homelessness. Lots more suicides in veterans who have seen combat than in the general population, perhaps you’ve read about that, being a doctor and all. Made me start thinking about how the military shapes us, and how people who haven’t been through it can’t quite understand. 

I started my own veterans’ group, and started working on my PhD; the men and women I worked with in the group didn’t all get better, some didn’t make it at all; but many of us did, more than I had hoped when I started.”

Duck leaned back in the chair. “And now, here I am. Got a degree, and a job, and an actual following like some barmy TV life coach, if you can believe it. And when Jezza was fourteen, and too rickety and sick and in too much pain to follow me around anymore, I made the hardest decision of my life and held her while they put her down.”

The room fell silent for a minute, Duck looking into space with a sad frown. Then he blew out a breath. “So that’s my story. I’m sure you’ve heard similar from others who’ve come back from the wars. Maybe it’s bullshit; maybe some of it rings true for you. What I want you to take away today, is that I won’t be shocked or horrified by the thoughts you’ve had lately; I’ve had them. Maybe you’ve done some awful things while you were deployed, or since you’ve been back. I did too. I’m not here to tell you how to feel. Your feelings are your own and if you want to tell me about them then I’m here to listen, yes definitely. I think it helps to talk about what’s going on in your head, but you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to - though I hope you’d want to let me, or someone, know at least if you were having thoughts like the ones that got you here in the first place.” 

The man leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees, hands gripping each other with fingers interlaced, his face earnest and sober. “So here’s one other thing I want you to do, between now and the time when we meet tomorrow. Think about your life right now. Not what happened last week that ended you in hospital, not what happened a year ago, not what happened when you were in the service, or a kid, or a teenager. But right now, today, is there something or someone in your life important enough to to keep living for? The movies say -” and he put on a goofy face and a high squeaky version of his ruined voice, “‘I love that person so much, I’d DIE for them.’” He rolled his eyes. “That’s fucking bollocks, mate. You know it, and I know it.  _ Living  _ for something is the harder thing. And only you can decide if there’s someone or something for you to live for.”

“For me, it was a fucking ridiculous little ball of fluff who licked my face for fourteen years and helped me find my calling where I can stay pretty sane and help people at the same time. A bloody dog was my savior, and I’m not too proud to own it.” He jabbed a thumb at his chest and nodded. “I knew a humvee mechanic who made it her goal to learn life-saving, because of the medic who evac’d her. She’s a paramedic now, and last month she found the bloke and took him to a steak dinner. They cried over the pudding. One of the men I’m working with now decided he wanted to write poetry, and that was enough for him. It doesn’t have to be some earth-shattering quest or the love of your life.”

He leaned forward earnestly, looking John straight in the eyes; John fought the urge to squirm under the weight of the man’s sincerity.  

“Depression is a liar, John; it tells you the world would be better without you in it. That just isn’t true. You don’t have to find the answer today that will last the rest of your life, just for now. Just long enough until the next thing comes. And the next, and the next after that, so you keep living. Because you matter to the people who love you, and you make a difference in their lives, and that’s enough reason right there, if you can just see it.”

John sat mutely across from Duck when the man fell silent. He had been pulled into Duck’s story, and his mind was spinning with what had been said. He knew he would need to digest it more before he was ready to talk. After about five minutes of quiet, in which Duck seemed to meditate, taking long, slow, even breaths, he declared, “my sermon’s over, John. Let’s talk methods.” Duck was willing to consider a course of antidepressants if they were warranted, and had prescription arrangements with psychiatrists here at the facility if that was the case. He admitted that he shared John’s feeling that they were not always the first choice.

“You’re a doctor, so you read the journals, don’t you John?” Duck said jovially, “Some research looks like exercise can be just as effective as dopamine inhibitors in a variety of patients. It stands to reason that soldiers and former soldiers, who had been accustomed to regular, vigorous exercise, could benefit from getting back into training as a part of their treatment for depression. So we’ll start with that - tomorrow, we’ll meet here in our tracksuits and trainers, and we’ll have a good run before we talk. How’s that sound to you?”

It was the first time Duck had asked John an actual question all session, and it took a minute for him to come up with an answer. “Yeah, fine. That’s fine, I guess.”       

“That’s great. Tomorrow at 8:30, then, meet here.” And he stood to shake John’s hand before resuming his seat as John headed for the door. 

~~oOo~~

His meeting had taken less time than he thought; there was still about an hour before lunch. He stopped by his room, but no one seemed to be looking for him, so he wandered out to the grounds. Once he stepped onto the gravel path, he realized he was still in pajamas and slippers; it seemed weird not to be dressed when it was broad daylight and he was outside. Still, he had no desire to go back in and change. The sunlight and the vibrant birdsong in the trees beckoned him deeper into the garden. He followed the path a little ways, then sat on a shaded bench under a huge, gnarled beech tree. 

Clearly the tree had sheltered many a lost soul; it was scarred and littered with scratched initials of varying ages, thicker than any graffiti John had seen out in London. They went up as high as a person could reach, and in some places higher, if there was a likely branch for climbing nearby. Under the boughs, the light filtered green and gentle, and the breeze was reduced to a whispering in the leaves. John took a minute to just breathe and listen to the sounds, feel the air, see the garden and smell the earthy mulch below his feet. 

After a moment, he reflected on the unusual person he had met that morning. Truly, he felt more comfortable with Duck ( _ why Duck? _ ) than he ever had with Ella, or any other therapist he considered seeing. It’s true, he had looked for women therapists in the past. Was he really so tired of men telling him what to do, as Sherlock had deduced back before the Culverton Smith case had gone to hell? ( _ Possibly. Sherlock can be a bloody arrogant sod when he wants to be and the last thing I want to do is encourage him. _ ) Or were women easier for him to resist, to avoid telling the worst of what’s in his mind, because his internalized chivalry felt he was protecting them? ( _ “Sexism, John, that’s known as sexism,” Mary’s voice rang in his mind _ .) 

Either way, this man with his frank telling of a difficult story, and the unselfconscious details he’d included, made John think that he really wouldn’t flinch at some of the things John had been doing or thinking. He seemed so accepting of his own past, and how it had gotten him where he was today; it made John a little envious, to be honest. Deep down, he craved similar peace, that certainty of being on the right path and aligning his actions to it. 

But how was he to come to terms with what he had done, move on from here, know who he even was anymore? It used to be so easy - doctor, soldier, Captain. Ladies’ man. Friendly bloke who liked a pint and was good in a fight, and just as good patching you up afterward. 

Now, everything was different, broken, wrong. He was still a doctor, but had betrayed his oath to do no harm and help those he could. In the service, he had formed a strong moral conviction that he could, and should, do harm to others in defense of what he believed to be right. It had stayed with him when he returned; hell, John had killed a man less than 48 hours after he met Sherlock, in order to save his new friend’s life, and had barely batted an eyelash. 

He’d gone astray from there, though. He’d lost the thread of what was right, and lost his grip on his impulses because of it: started reacting on instinct, not reason. Would it be worse to give Duck’s ‘methods’ a try than what he’d already tried a few days ago? Certainly less final, and if he truly turned out to be irredeemable, he would know what to do.

But somehow, in the green, fresh-scented bower under the stately beech, that option felt far, far away, like it was a thought someone else was having. Not relevant to him any more. Instead, he felt an emotion he’d not felt in so long, it took him a few minutes to understand why his face insisted on smiling, why his lungs inflated with deep, satisfying breaths, what this bubbling feeling in his chest could be...

Hope. It was hope. 

A thought occurred to him as he enjoyed the sensation.  _ I wonder if I even have exercise clothes here? I’d better go check.  _ And he stepped back to the path, heading for his room with a purpose. 

~~oOo~~

Regrettably, John had plenty of pajamas, pants and warm socks in the drawers in his room, but nothing generally considered ‘outerwear’ and definitely nothing suitable for a run. After asking a few staff in pastel scrubs, he was directed to a phone in a cubby by the front desk to make a call. He punched the number he knew by heart, and after a few rings, heard the well-known baritone come over the line. 

“You’ve reached Sherlock Holmes. If you are calling to leave the particulars of a case, speak after the tone. You have two minutes to engage my interest. If I decide to pursue your case I will call you,  **do not** repeat your call. Assume that I am not interested if you do not hear from me.” 

There was a little rumbling of the microphone, and then the voice, a little breathless, continued, “If this is John, I know I said I’d answer your call, but I have to put Watson in the bath after a minor mishap with toast and jam. Nothing to worry about, and we’ll be coming to you around 1:30 today.” More microphone noise, and then the message cut off with a *beep.* 

John hemmed and hawed into the phone. “Erm, hello, Sherlock, this is John. I’m hoping you could do me a favor before you come by today? I’m going to need some workout clothes for the next few days; Dr Evans wants to work an exercise program into my sessions here. I’ve got jogging bottoms in my bottom drawer and trainers in the closet in my room at the flat. Could you pack a bag and bring it with you? Um, that’s it. Thanks. See you later.”

He hung up, unexpectedly disappointed that he hadn’t had a chance to speak with Sherlock directly, which he blithely chalked up to impending boredom. He headed to the canteen for lunch, already thinking ahead to when his friend would arrive.

~~oOo~~

John sat alone at lunch, his mind still chewing on all that had transpired in his meeting that morning while his mouth was chewing through a cheese sandwich and some tomato soup. He barely noticed what he was eating, and was surprised when his plate was clean and his spoon clinked at the bottom of the bowl. He decided to take his apple in his pocket and head back out to the garden instead of going to his room.

Outside, another patient was settled on the bench under the beech tree, and John was in no mood to make small talk ( _bloody hell,_ _  it’s that bloke with the yellow dressing gown; if we start chatting I’ll never get rid of him) _ so he avoided meeting the fellow’s eye and meandered on down the path to the next area. This was a wildflower garden, with a little patch of lawn topped by a rustic bench full in the sunlight of a rare clear London day. All around the bench, the air hummed with bees visiting flowers and rang with birdsong from nearby trees, and in the distance he could faintly hear London traffic murmuring. The steady noise suited the whirring of his thoughts.

He sat on the bench and leaned his face up, the air on the cool side, but the warmth of the sunlight more than making up for it. As he basked, he ruminated over Duck and his ‘sermon’ - the man had confessed to having nightmares, hitting his girlfriend, doing drugs, had even hinted at criminal activities. Yet now, he seemed so well-adjusted, so stable. Like all those bad things had never happened and maybe he had made it up. And a cute dog in it, to boot.

_ Wouldn’t be the first time a self-help professional fabricated a backstory to add credibility to their spiel,  _ John thought _.  _ But the man was clearly a veteran, his salute had been perfect in that way that only military training could produce; the scar on his neck corresponded to similar injuries John had seen while in Afghanistan.  

John believed Duck was sincere; down in his gut he felt the truth of it. Over the course of his life, John had learned to trust his gut, at least about people. It had only ever let him down twice, that he knew of; once when he believed Sherlock was dead, and once when he believed Mary was...  _ was Mary, and not someone whose full name I never learned, whose whole story I’ll never know, now.  _

John dropped forward to put elbows on thighs and bow his head; he felt the sun, like a physical weight, warm the back of his neck and his hair. He interlaced his fingers and rubbed his thumbs on them restlessly, mirroring his inner disquiet. Thinking of Mary was never easy, these days. His time with her had been - at first - laced with giddy relief that he could feel things for someone again after the grey blankness that had marked his days for the first year or more after Sherlock’s supposed suicide. He had seen an end to the dreary nothingness, had seen a way forward after having lost any inclination to do much beyond keep himself in house, bread and booze. Mary had been fun, and sassy, and sexy as hell when she wanted to be. Why she pointed herself in John’s direction is another thing he’d never have the answer to now, but it had reminded him of who he was before Sherlock, before his invaliding out of the service. That bloke who could charm the ladies, get a leg over on three continents and go back to the war the next morning with a smile on his face. He liked that bloke; he liked how being that man with Mary made him feel. So he asked her to marry, and at that very moment everything changed. 

Because on that day, he was also faced with the man he had become when he came back to England. That man who had been lost, and then found purpose in his work with Sherlock.  _ Many would say “for” Sherlock, but they didn’t get how we worked. How we fit together those first two years. He is brilliant, but he so often needs someone to translate for the masses. And he trusted me to do that.  _

John felt a faint burst of pride warm his cheeks, and tipped his face back up to the sun. He had been able to make things easier for his difficult friend, and his friend had been - well, pretty often he had been awful, but underneath all that John’s gut  _ yeah, that again, _ was telling him here was a man who was steadfast and who genuinely cared about John, more than anyone else he had ever met.

That was what was so devastating about losing Sherlock, he realized. Yes, the adventures, the cases, the bachelor living, even Sherlock’s brilliance and foibles, all of that was fun. But the loss of someone who valued him, John Watson, more than any other person in the world, and to lose them to suicide (as he thought then) was a severe blow.  _ How could he care about me like I thought he did, and then do that to himself? How unimportant I must be after all. _ That thought had played endlessly through his mind in the bleak months alone, in his ratty flat far away from Baker Street, after it had happened.

Lonely months indeed; John swiftly came to realize that he had very little in his life that was not wrapped up with Sherlock once his large presence was gone. He had few friends. He worked some shifts at the surgery, but had tailored his schedule to allow for maximum opportunity to hare off when a case beckoned. His blog, well, the less said about that, the better. It was hardly about him at all, was it?

_ Everything had been Sherlock, and then there was nothing.  _

He knew the few folks he’d had in his life at the time had worried he might... well, it just took him a little longer than they thought, eh?  _ And back then nothing was happening; there was no event to tip me over the edge. I was taking the slow route instead; drinking, never leaving the flat, hardly eating or sleeping.  _

Then Sherlock came back, big as life, as his Mum would say. And all John’s grief, and pain, and slow dying had been for nothing. A joke, with him the butt of it, and everyone had expected him to just be ecstatic about it. His friend was back, and a hero! And yeah, he was happy Sherlock was alive, but he was also furious, ashamed that he had been taken in. His grief had changed him. He was even less likely to trust than he had been before, and that was saying something - his issues with trust had been central to his therapy when he came back from Afghanistan. But he had trusted Sherlock, instinctively, immediately. And been burned, so burned, for it.

Yet his gut was still telling him to trust Sherlock, even then, even now. So much so that he had left his daughter to the man when he couldn't go on. So much so that he came to that point at all by thinking he had become a danger to Sherlock.  _Everything has come back to him, again. Does his 'we're even, go on from here' include trusting him again? Trusting myself, with him?_

He hung his head, squeezed his eyes shut and scratched his fingers through his hair in agitation, blowing out a long breath. This wasn’t getting him anywhere fast, was it? He’d been over it in his own mind so many, many times, and the answers were usually the same. John shook his head and opened his eyes, squinting at the brightness.  _ That’s all very well and good, but it’s the past. Can’t change it. Duck said think of right now. What is there for me going forward?   _ What had the last days in hospital been all about, if not clarifying that very thing? 

He knew that answer, no question. 

“John!” a deep voice rang out across the garden, and there, stepping from the shaded walk onto the wide green lawn, was Sherlock, with Rosie slung on one hip, and some bags over his shoulder. The sunlight picked up the golden glints in her hair, and made his curls gleam like polished mahogany. Sherlock’s blue scarf made both their eyes glow sapphire. They shone in the clear light like manifesting angels, happy smiles on both their faces.

_ Whoever said the Universe was a subtle place was full of shit,  _ John thought. He waved at them as they approached. 

“I got your message,” Sherlock said as he stopped in front of the bench beside John and deposited Rosie in his lap. He put down a duffel John recognized from his own closet, and then rummaged in the nappy bag to produce a changing cloth, which he spread at John’s feet on the grass. Then he snagged Rosie back from John, and plopped her on the ground on the cloth. She looked around in delight, and rolled to her side, reaching for the grass near her hand. John smiled indulgently, and caught Sherlock keeping a careful eye on the girl and what little hands might be picking. It warmed him almost as much as the sun was. 

“Yeah, thanks. Did you have any trouble finding things?” 

“No, John, your closet was not hard to navigate,” Sherlock said wryly. “It’s hardly Bank of England.” 

John smacked his arm with the back of his hand. “Shut up, prat.”

Sherlock snorted, then settled on the bench with his shoulder pressed up to John’s, having shed his bags and loosened his scarf. “This is rather nice, isn’t it?” He tipped his face up to the sun, closing his eyes and basking just as John had.

John took the opportunity to observe his friend without a return examination; Sherlock looked more rested and relaxed than he had since before they had taken the girl’s case that led to so much trouble. The lines on his lean face had smoothed, the dark circles under his eyes had mostly faded, his lips had curled in a faint smile and he breathed slowly and deeply through his nose, inhaling the fragrances of the flowers in the garden. John felt a pulse of relief; he had caused Sherlock such worry, and he was glad to see it passing.

He looked down to where Rosie wriggled on the little blanket, rolling from her back to her side, and over to her tummy, stretching her chubby arms to reach the tantalizing green blades at the edge of the blanket. John realized she had made progress in her movements since he had last paid attention to it - she had still been on the run-up to rolling when last they had tummy time together, and here she was, rolling over and over like she’d done it all along. Soon enough she’d be crawling, he realized.  _ We’ll have to baby-proof the flat.  _ He frowned. Amina and Sherlock would have to baby-proof the flat - he was here until he was let out. 

“It won’t be too long, John.” Sherlock said quietly at his side. 

John whipped up his head to look at Sherlock, who had cracked one eye from his leaned-back posture to regard him.

“What?” John said.

“You won’t be in here that long, I’m sure of it.” Sherlock roused himself to sit up and pierce John with his assessing, stripping stare. “You were thinking that you’d be missing things about Rosie because you were in here, weren’t you? Your eyes tracked her rolling, which was only achieved yesterday, and you smiled at her progress then looked thoughtful - considering upcoming changes. And then you frowned and bit your bottom lip - awareness that you might not be present for those milestones.”

John shook his head ruefully. “Amazing. But I was also thinking that I’d have to remind you and Amina to baby-proof the flat if she starts crawling before I can get home.” 

“Ah,” Sherlock said. “Well, I’ve had some practice at Baker Street, so it shouldn’t be a chore at your place. Your flat is much tidier, after all.” 

“You’ve been baby-proofing Baker Street?” John’s raised eyebrows and incredulously dropped jaw at this statement made Sherlock look away sheepishly. “I can’t... I can’t even imagine what that looks like.” 

“Covers for the outlets, toxic chemicals in the top cupboards or the locked closet in the hall, and I’m considering renting out 221C and converting it to a laboratory so as to keep the upstairs for dedicated living space. Mrs. Hudson kept nattering on and on about ‘oh, what if John and Rosie come to visit, what if she stays here for a few days, she’ll drink that blue stuff thinking it’s Lucozade, and then where will we be, her insides will dissolve!’” Sherlock’s Mrs. Hudson impression was spot-on and hilarious, delivered with the obvious affection he held for his irascible landlady.        

John laughed delightedly, and Sherlock chuckled along with him. After a moment, they quieted, and Sherlock looked away to the girl at their feet. “It’s good to hear you laugh, John. It’s been awhile,” he peeked out the corner of his eye at John to see how the comment landed.

John nodded, his smile abashed.  _ Yeah, it really has been.  _

After a beat or three of silence, Sherlock went on. “So, you met with Dr Evans this morning. How did that go, other than needing your workout clothes?” He turned on the bench to face more toward John, and snagged John’s hand from his lap to clasp it in his enormous paw. As he often was, John was surprised by just how large Sherlock’s hands actually were; he used them with such delicacy and precision, it wasn’t until he was holding something John was so familiar with, like his own hand  _ (or my bloody gun) _ , that their length and breadth registered. John looked at the two hands together, struck by the contrast, until he remembered that Sherlock had asked a question. 

He looked up to meet Sherlock’s gaze, inquiring and slightly anxious; had he been worried about how the appointment would go? “Yeah, it was good. It was... yeah. Good, I think. Dr Evans wants me to call him ‘Duck’ - says everyone does, and sounds like someone scraped out his vocal cords with a bottle brush. He’s a veteran, took damage to his larynx in Iraq. Told me a story about his dog. He did most of the talking today, actually. Said he wanted to let me think about whether he would be the right person to work with.” John trailed off, realizing that by giving him that choice, Duck had asked him to make a commitment to engage in therapy with him. None of his other counselors had acted like he could do anything else, just assumed John was their obligation, no matter what he wanted, and him never in a strong enough mental state to challenge them on it. It had been something that happened to him, not that he chose.  _ Huh. Maybe that’s why it never stuck, before?  _

“And is he?” Sherlock prompted, after John had been silent for a few minutes. Without releasing John’s hand, he leaned down and plucked a plant from Rosie’s grasping fingers as she was steering it toward her mouth. “Not that one, Watson, it will give you a tummy ache,” he scolded. Her squawk of displeasure made him smile fondly. John stared at it, arrested by the easy emotions on the man’s face, how it turned the usually ascetic, sneering lines around Sherlock’s full lips to crinkles of good humor. 

“John?” John pulled his gaze up from Sherlock’s smile to meet his eyes, dark eyebrows raised in question. John’s bottom lip felt suddenly dry; he licked it.

“Hmm?” John said; he’d lost track of the conversation. What were they talking about? “Oh, yeah - Duck. I think he’s worth a go, at least. I like him; he wasn’t just feeding me a line of bollocks about being all better overnight, and he’s made working with former soldiers his specialty.” 

“Do you think his methods have merit? As a doctor?” Sherlock asked, and pursed his lips skeptically. John looked at them again; how did a man have such a plush lip, anyway? He nodded his head.

“So far we’ve talked about antidepressants, and exercise. He cautious about the one and makes a good argument for the other that is supported by the literature I’ve read in the last few years.” He squeezed Sherlock’s hand in his own, unconsciously trying to reassure. “I’m feeling hopeful about our prospects.” 

Sherlock squeezed back and returned to watching the child at their feet. “Good,” he said quietly.       

John settled back against the bench and tipped his face to the sun. He and Sherlock hadn’t let go of each other’s hands.  _ I guess this is something we do, now.  _ John thought. He squeezed Sherlock’s hand again,  _ it’s fine;  _ his friend squeezed back.  _ It’s all fine. _


	9. There's Reason to Be Afraid

John awoke the next day feeling tired. He had spent a comfortable afternoon with Rosie and Sherlock, heading indoors after John started to worry about Rosie’s fair skin, and even Sherlock was showing a little color. They had talked some more about John’s appointment with Duck, and what being in counseling would be like. John didn’t feel comfortable raising Sherlock’s hopes, and stayed guarded on the whole topic. Sherlock seemed to take that as self-conscious pessimism on John’s part and tried, in his own emotionally tone-deaf way, to encourage him as he left for the evening, Rosie asleep against his shoulder.

“I’m sure tomorrow will be fine, John; you’re only moderately out of shape at this point compared to many men your age; actually you’re quite fit. This Duck, as you said, has ten years or more on you. You should be able to keep up with him without trouble. Shall I bring Watson back in the afternoon again, like today?”

John, still blinking at the notion of Sherlock calling him ‘quite fit,’ had agreed and said his goodnights without looking his friend in the eye.

John didn’t sleep as well as he had the night previous; his dreams were laced with confusing glimpses of the people in his life and a cast of anonymous extras, all seemingly in trouble, and him frantic to fix it, save them, something. No one was bleeding, no one was dying, but everyone looked worried and frightened. The tension was palpable.

Toward dawn, the dreams seemed to change and calm; an enormous hand grasped his own as he moved through the dreamscape, and although everyone still looked to him to solve the nameless problem, while his hand was warmly clasped, he was grounded and confident, capable of meeting whatever the mysterious trouble was.

John rubbed his eyes as he hung socked feet over the side of his bed, his slippers positioned so he could step into them easily. He glanced at the clock on the wall and saw he had an hour before he had to meet Duck for their run. He dressed in his jogging bottoms and pulled a crisp grey TShirt from the duffel, then stood there, shirtless, mouth agape at what he held. “I Don’t Shave for Sherlock Holmes,” printed in bold, black letters, covered the front of the shirt. Mary had had it custom-made for him because she thought it was hilarious; he had never worn it. With an embarrassed groan, he threw the shirt over his head (who knew how many shirts Sherlock had packed? He couldn’t afford to be picky) and zipped a drab hoodie up over the whole thing.  

What had Sherlock thought, seeing it in his drawer? John’s face heated as he thought of it - it had been folded with others in the drawer, so perhaps he hadn’t seen the text? _God, I hope he didn't. How could I explain it?_ His insides were veering into ‘weird’ territory just considering it: Sherlock, holding the shirt in his hands, reading it, his face pinched in distaste, or confusion, or... what? Well, there was no changing it, so he manfully ignored any possible embarrassment and stomped out to have a light breakfast.       

When he arrived at Duck’s office, the man was waiting for him with a pleased smile on his face, dressed in the red trainers and worn, comfortable workout clothes. “Good morning, John,” he croaked, “are you ready to move a little?”

“Yeah,” John said briefly, nodding his hello.

“Great. I just have to put my running shoe on. Won’t be a tick.” He settled down on a chair, and pulled up his left trouser leg - revealing a prosthetic painted with vivid orange flames on a silver background, cupping his leg to just below the knee, fitted with a false foot that wore the red trainer. John stared, not having expected this at all.

“Ah ha, got you! The reveal is always a lark,” Duck smirked at him. “Took a lot of practice on that pegleg to get my stride to feel smooth, but it’s been worth it. And this is what makes taking a run possible.” He opened the gym bag that sat beside his chair and produced a metal hook-shaped blade, also fitted with a cup to apply to his residual limb. He peeled off the sock that covered the limb, which looked to extend about twenty or twenty-two centimeters down from the knee, and ended in a smooth rounded nub and some scar tissue. Duck replaced the sock with a different one that looked to be made of wetsuit material as far as John could tell. Then he fitted the cup and hook over the sleeve, flipped a switch near the bottom of the cup, and stood. Air hissed out of the valve he had opened, and he leaned over and closed it when the sound had stopped.

“Vacuum-sealed for freshness!” he quipped, and bounced on his toe and the hook. It bore his weight easily, and seemed to flex and support his weight as well as his natural leg did. He raised the hook in the air and wiggled it, testing the soundness of the connection. John saw some rubber tread patches on the bottom of the blade; traction, he supposed. “There," Duck declared, "she’s alright now. I usually jog the outermost path in the garden on decent weather days, it’s about one-point-five klicks around and we can decide to go until we’re ready to stop, yeah?”   

John couldn’t stop staring at the hook as Duck walked. His curiosity got the better of him as they strolled to the doors, and he blurted “Can I ask you some questions? About your leg, I mean?”

Duck grinned as he strode along, his gait somewhat more bouncy on the hook leg. “Thought you might have a few, being a doctor and all. Have you seen much of amputees before?”

John shook his head. “Almost none of healed ones, even in the service. You lost the leg in Iraq? Was it at the same time as the neck wound?”

“Got it in one. A mortar round landed right in front of me and took off my foot in an instant, then shrapnel ricocheted off the building beside us into my throat." Duck spoke matter-of-factly, not particularly fussed about discussing what must have been a devastating event at the time. "Your RAMC blokes had me in the ambulance and on my way to hospital for surgery in less than fifteen minutes; it’s part of why I healed up as well as I did. I talked to one of the blokes later; he came to check on me after I was out of the operating theater. Said I should have bled out right there, but for that they could chuck me straight into transport. I’m one lucky bastard, right enough.” He pushed the door to the garden open, enveloping them in humid floral-scented air. The weather had returned to London drab after yesterday’s bright sunlight, but it didn’t look like it would rain in the next little while.  

“And you have the whole femur intact? But removed the fibula and tibia? Or are there portions of them remaining?”

Duck led the way through the garden as they talked, heading for a wrought-iron fence off to one side. “The whole femur and top 20 or so centimeters of tibia and fibula with a covering of muscle drawn over the ends; the surgeons found there wasn’t enough intact bone below that to risk it going septic if they left it.” As they reached the path by the fence, smoothly covered with fine gravel, Duck stepped up into a slow jog. “It’s lucky there was lower leg bone left at all; means I can maintain a pretty natural stride from the knee, rather than swinging the leg from the hip all the time.” He demonstrated with a few exaggerated strides, both knee- and hip-based, then settled back to his easy jog. John unthinkingly kept pace as further questions bubbled up.

“Do you still have pain from it?” John asked, “Does it hurt to do what we’re doing? Running?”

“It aches now and then, and I could swear I can feel my toes sometimes, even though they’re long gone. I need to pay attention to the skin, make sure it’s not rubbing or getting irritated under the sleeves I wear. But for the most part, the running is more comfortable than it’s ever been, now that I’ve got a vacuum attachment and this running blade. Much better than on a pegleg, more bounce, more give to it.” As they talked, Duck had been increasing the pace until they were moving along at a good clip, keeping an eye on how John was keeping up.

John dropped back a pace to watch his companion’s movement, still enthralled with the technology and its application in this case. “Your stride is very smooth. I had noticed a little hitch to your gait yesterday, but never thought it was more than a cramp or shin splint.”

“Thanks, John,” Duck said sincerely, “I work at it, so that’s nice to hear from someone whose job it is to pay attention to such things.”

“You’re in better shape than most of the people I come across,” John said, finally noticing they were jogging as his breathing started to affect his ability to keep up the conversation. “Better than me, for certain. There hasn’t been much time to get much exercise, lately.” He felt his body heating up as they ran, a dew of sweat forming at his hairline. After a few more steps, he seemed to find his stride and settled at Duck’s left, looking around at their surroundings as they passed. Trees, shrubs, and some clumps of flowering perennials went past on one side, the wrought-iron fence and a patch of grass along the outside on the other. The path was as level and well-kept as a university track; and not a soul was to be seen through the greenery.

“This is a lovely place,” he ventured as the silence grew. “I’m glad I ended up here, if I had to be somewhere.”

“Yeah,” Duck agreed. “I convinced them to put in this ring path for my runs - it’s something I do with many of the people I work with. But the grounds were already well established before I ever got here.”

The silence stretched again, Duck seeming content to move and look about them. John jogged along a little longer, then ventured, “when I first came back from Afghanistan, I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to run again.”

“Yeah?” Duck responded, “Did you take an injury to your leg?” He turned to jog a few steps sideways, looking John’s stride over. “Your file only mentioned the shoulder, and you’d never know now.”

“No injury. Psychosomatic presentation of PTSD. Had massive pain up my right leg, affected my walking, muscles locked up all the time.” John ran a few more steps. “I had a cane, even. Felt like an old grandpa.”

“How long did it take to clear up?” Duck asked, intrigued curiosity in his tone.

“Resisted treatment, and therapy,” John flashed a wry look at Duck, “for several months, then cleared up overnight, essentially, except for the muscle atrophy.”

“Blimey, that’s pretty unusual!” Duck exclaimed. “Did something happen the night that it cleared up?”   

John jogged along for a few meters before answering, lost in thought. “Yeah, actually. I met a person who changed my life.”

“Ah. And who was that?”

“Sherlock. I met Sherlock Holmes.” John subsided back into his thoughts as he ran, brow wrinkling with remembering that time, those heady early days.

Duck looked as though he would ask more questions, then caught the look on John’s face and reined himself in. They loped along, neither speaking.  

 _Changed my life that night, and again when he jumped, and again when he came back... Seems like changing my life is a habit with him, isn’t it? Is that good? Am I insane for wanting to still be his friend when everything becomes chaos around him?_ John’s face wrinkled in a frown and his pace increased a bit, Duck easily keeping up at his side.

_When he came back, after he was - gone - I didn’t want to be his friend. I didn’t want to take the chance that he would hurt me like that again._

But he couldn’t stay away. With everyone he knew - including Mary - firmly in the ‘forgive-Sherlock’ camp, he had no excuse to refuse to see his ‘resurrected’ friend; then he got swept up in the whirlwind. He loved it, felt alive again, had the best of both worlds, or so he thought; Mary on one hand, Sherlock on the other, and each admiring the other, so he never had to choose.

Until he did; until Mary chose for the both of them with her assassin’s solution to her problems, and her obsessive need to keep John in the dark. _Christ, why does no one trust me enough to just_ _talk_ _to me?_ If Mary had confessed to her past before everything that had happened, would he have been able to get over it? The thought of killing for nothing more than money, no ethical or moral justification other than it being the job turned his stomach. But if Mary had explained, convinced him she had had a change of heart and that part of her life was over, he liked to think his love for her would have allowed him to forgive her and go on together. That’s eventually what happened, anyway... after she nearly killed Sherlock.

Anger swept him unexpectedly, righteous and fierce; _she never apologized for it, shooting him. He had to make it right for me, so I could go back to her, back to Rosie._ He had not intended to go back, those months at Baker Street while he helped Sherlock recover. He had raged against it, shouted at Sherlock where he was laid out on the sofa because the man was too weak and sore to stand. And every time, Sherlock had logically, dispassionately, explained to him why it had to be that he go back. For the baby. Because Mary would eventually crack if he never relented, and would come after him. Because Sherlock knew John loved her, and he would be happier with his family.

_Caught you, Holmes, you were wrong there. Was I happier? After going back to her? After not being able to reconcile what she did, taking every opportunity to check out of the marriage? Texting another woman for god’s sake, and eventually I’d have cheated for real, and then I’d have hated myself. Doubting her love when she lay dying, because she had lied and lied. How’s that for happy?_

John shook his head as sweat started to trickle down his forehead, realizing he was starting to feel fatigue in his legs and the beginnings of burning in his lungs. How many loops had they done? He looked over at Duck, who strode beside him breathing deeply and calmly, color ruddy on his cheeks but still looking remarkably fresh.

“How many rounds have we done?” John asked, somewhat breathlessly. “I’ve lost track.”

“Just coming up on three, so about four-and-a-half kilometers. Feel like you’ve had enough for a first time out?”

“Yeah,” John gasped, increasingly aware of his labored breathing and tired legs, “I really have, I think.”

“Well and good; there’s a little path up here on the left, just take that and we’ll walk back.” Duck continued his jog right up to the indicated path.

John kept alongside until Duck dropped to a walk, then stopped and curled his upper body and put his hands on his thighs while he caught his breath. Seemed he really had gotten out of training. He could manage a decent sprint when it was needed, but as for stamina... while he had seen worse in his patients, he’d generally kept in better shape than this. _Chicken and egg,_ he thought, _did the lowered fitness encourage the depression, or the depression lower the urge to stay fit?_ Bit of both, most likely. His patients who had presented with depression struggled with motivation, especially to exercise. So, unsurprising he did the same. Still, he was a bit flustered at how hard he had worked to do a run that he would have thought laughably light when he was enlisted. Not even a 5k charity run, and he was all in a sweat.

“Alright, then?” Duck’s harsh rasp called from up the path a bit. John cracked a smile as he raised his head and waved vaguely at his companion, who still looked keen and chipper.

“I’m realizing the wisdom of your suggestion that we do this,” John said as he approached Duck on the little path. “I’d let myself go, rather more than I’d noticed.”

“I’ve seen worse, and I’m sure you have too, if you’ve been in general practice much since you’ve been back.”

“Can’t argue that.”

“I’ve found that exercising with the people I counsel has multiple benefits - you can bond over a bastard of a hill or that last set of bicep curls, to start. And in my opinion, people think differently when they exercise, their brains operate differently. I can’t tell you the number of my clients who have had some kind of revelation or ah-ha moment during a run or a swim or a long ride on their bicycle. You’re moving a bloody ton of oxygen around your body, focusing your mind on moving yourself, so you don’t scrutinize and censor your higher thoughts in the same way you would if you were just hanging about and thinking hard.”

John snickered, which bloomed into a full-blown laugh as he pictured making Sherlock go for a run when he was stymied on a case. “I know someone who you’d never convince of that, though he’d probably benefit from it.” Feeling sticky and hot in his hoodie, he zipped it open and flapped the sides to circulate some air into his armpits.     

“Sherlock, hmm?”

John stopped in his tracks and glared at Duck, his thoughts instantly shifting into a suspicious mode. “How did you know that? Just what was in that file you read?”

Duck’s eyebrows climbed his forehead in surprise at the sudden change in tone of their conversation. “John, your shirt says ‘I Don’t Shave for Sherlock Holmes.’”

John dropped his chin to look at the phrase on his chest, abashed at his unexpected accusation of this person who had been nothing but frank with him in their dealings so far. “Huh. I’d forgotten about that.” He looked up from under his brows and resumed walking, stepping up to Duck’s side on the path. “Somewhere in that file it probably says I have problems with trusting people. Recent events haven’t encouraged that tendency to change.” He mopped his brow with his sleeve and then opened the door and held it for the other to pass through in silent apology.

Duck nodded his acknowledgement, then snorted. “Well, you’ve hardly met me, so why should you trust me yet? If you want to look at your file, I’m fine with that. I won’t be putting anything in there that I’m not already saying to your face - that’s not how I work.” They had arrived at the door of his office. He pulled a key on a lanyard from under his shirt to unlock it and they went in. Duck headed to the water cooler in the corner, drawing them each a tall glass. “Drink up my lad, it’ll do you good. And you can beg off for a piss if our chat goes too long.”

John took the glass greedily and slurped off half of it in one long draft, Adam’s apple lifting and dropping as he swallowed. He topped his glass off before heading for the same spot on the sofa he had taken yesterday, stopping by Duck in his chair, swapping out the running blade for his regular prosthetic foot. “Feeling alright, there?” John enquired, and when Duck looked up and nodded, continued “How much do you usually run on it?”

“Quite a lot, actually; right now I’m seeing two other clients besides you on an inpatient or daily schedule, and I see others weekly or less often. We don’t always run, but we might take a walk, or ride a bike, or if it’s pissing out, use the weight room here. I average about ten kilometers a day, more than that a couple times a week.”   

John’s eyebrows had been climbing steadily toward his hairline as Duck spoke; the man was outlining a vigorous routine for a person with whole legs, let alone working with a physical challenge like Duck had. John was astounded, and said so. “That’s bloody impressive, Duck. I hope I can keep up.”

Duck laughed, which sounded painful with his ruined voice, except that his face was so joyful. Despite himself John chuckled too, shaking his head. When they had calmed, Duck indicated that John should join him out in the clear space at the side of the room. “Come on, gotta stretch out your legs, or you’ll be groaning in the morning. And then you can tell me what you want to about this Sherlock, and the people in your life.”

John took a deep breath, and did as he was told. It might hurt, but in the long run both the stretches and the talking would likely do him good. Duck showed him several stretches that loosened the muscles in calves and quads, hamstrings and gluteals. Some of them were drawn from yoga, he mentioned, and suggested John might consider adding the practice to his routine as it shaped up. “When I started I felt like a right prat, trying to bend myself up like a pretzel on my peg, but after about a month I started to get what all the fuss was about.” He bent almost entirely in half at the hips, legs straight but not locked, palms almost brushing the floor, then swung out to rest on hands and feet in a sort of triangle shape, coccyx pointed at the ceiling, head hanging loosely between his straight arms. “This one’s called ‘downward dog,’” his voice emerged somewhat muffled from his inverted form. “It’s possibly the best full-body stretch there is. Done right, it lengthens the spine, opens the hips and chest, stretches the calves, hamstrings and glutes, and strengthens the wrists and arms.” He walked his hands back toward his feet until he was bent in half again, then raised himself to standing with a loud exhale and a little hand flourish while John reined in his envious gaping.

“There! How do you feel?” He asked John as he ushered them over to the sofa and chair they’d occupied the day before.

John considered it. How did he feel? His arms and legs were weighted with tiredness and the burn of lactic acid metabolizing from muscles too little used over the last year or so. He was warm, a little sweaty still, and his body hummed with the buzz that comes from working hard, but not too hard. He felt... “brilliant, actually. Physically I feel... really good. Like my blood’s been stirred around after much too long.” He also felt ready, if not exactly eager, to start talking to someone he felt would not judge, and would give him an honest response. After months and years of the likes of Mycroft’s disingenuous posturing, Sherlock’s opaque reasoning, and Mary’s outright lies, the chance to talk about his life with someone who would give him a straight answer was extremely appealing. “Yeah. I... I think I’m ready to do this.”

A moment passed. “Do what, John?” Duck asked curiously.

“Make a change. Figure out my shit. I don’t know, get therapy-ized? Get better, and get on with my life.” John leaned forward and put elbows to knees, clasping his hands together. _Both the same size, my hands. Neither one bigger, or smaller._ “I want that." He sighed. "I’m so sick of being fucked up, you know? Feeling like I’m hanging on by my fingernails, faking it for my family so they won’t catch on. It’s fucking hateful, feeling like that all the time.” His hands clenched each other, flesh paling to white with his grip. Duck nodded, but said nothing.

“You said to think about what to live for; that’s easy. I’ve got a daughter, just about a year old now. Her mother is dead, and there’s so much to tell, to unpack about that, you’ll be sick of it soon enough. God knows I am.” He dropped his head and scratched fingers through sweat-damp hair, making it stick up in odd spikes.

“And there’s Sherlock, he’s my best friend. He needs me, y’know? He cares about me, and that’s... so unusual for him, so out of his comfort zone... I’m possibly the only person in the world who can say it. Well, now Rosie, my daughter. He loves her, too. But he’s this amazing, brilliant man, can read your life story in the stains on your shoes and the way you comb your hair, but he’s a recovering addict, and he calls himself a sociopath and he has so much trouble making emotional attachments with anyone. Doesn’t understand how regular people work most of the time, and couldn’t be the slightest bit arsed to find out in case it might be important.” John huffed in exasperated wonder. “He’s picked me, out of all the people in London, in the world, to be the one he lets into his life, be his friend.” John clasped his hands tightly together again, feeling the one against the other and comparing it to the wide paw that grasped his hand in the garden yesterday. His throat felt tight, his words having to push past feelings that were rising up. “I almost let him down; took that one person away from him, right? When I took those pills.”  

John leaned back into the sofa cushions, hands coming up to rub his face briefly, then scrub through his hair again. He slumped into the sofa’s embrace and tipped his head back; it was soft but supported him well. “Maybe the note I wrote was in that file you have, I don’t know. Anyhow... I told Sherlock that I was doing it to protect him. From me. Because I couldn’t control my anger, and the lashing out, is that what you called it? Hurting people for no good reason. Hurting him. Me - I hurt him. I throttled him when he woke me from a nightmare. I shot him by mistake instead of protecting him from a killer. Once I beat him bloody when he was hallucinating, off his tits on drugs. I was always hurting him when I couldn’t cope.

But, I think now, if I had done it... you know... actually died? I think that would have been the worst thing I could possibly have done to him. I’d have taken away the one person he’s been able to find that kind of connection with in the whole world. I’d have robbed him of the one chance he’s ever found of understanding what it’s like to care for someone, and have them care for you.”

He felt tears slipping from the corners of his eyes, running back into his hair, just as they had on that fateful night less than a week ago. _Only a few days, but so long ago._ As John spoke, things were coming clear to him, that he should have recognized ages before this. God, he was so dense! He had said Sherlock needed him, and that was true. But more importantly, Sherlock _cared_ about him. Even loved him? In whatever way a self-professed sociopath could do, John guessed that was how it was for Sherlock. How rare was that for his friend? As far as anyone he’d ever talked to - including Sherlock’s parents - had said, how Sherlock behaved toward John was unlike anything they had ever seen in the aloof genius. Warm. Protective. Thoughtful. All for him, only John.

 _And I almost took all that away from him forever. Thank god for him, and that I am terrible at email._ He heaved a shuddering breath.

“And you care about Sherlock,” Duck prompted, his quiet rasp breaking in on John’s revelations and recriminations.

“God yeah, I do.” John said with conviction. “I really do. He’s the most important person in my life. Him and Rosie, they’re what I have to live for. They deserve the best I can give them, don’t they?” John sat up and regarded Duck beseechingly. “Which, no matter how hard it might be, includes not taking myself out of the picture, and getting well so I can be with them.” He cuffed at his eyes with his sleeve, irked that he was bloody crying yet _again._

“So, I... yeah, that’s what I’m gonna have to be ready for, isn’t it? Ready to shovel as much shit as it takes to be able to stick with them from here on out.” John trailed off, breathing deeply to regain some composure. “Never thought I’d be upset that killing myself was _off_ the table, but look at me.” He cuffed his eyes again and snagged a tissue to give a good blow. “Fucking crying more in the last three days than in the last three decades, and that includes being shot.” He blew his nose again, and pulled a fresh tissue to dab at his eyes.

Duck let the silence stretch between himself and John until John began to feel a little uncomfortable. Abruptly Duck grinned and held out his hand. “John, I think you and I are gonna get along just fine. I’ll help you all I can, and your Sherlock, and Rosie, is it? Will get you back in one piece as soon as we can manage to find a big enough shovel, alright? I’ve got a good feeling about you.” He grinned as John shook his hand firmly, wiping his eyes one last time and nodding his head.

“Now, I don’t know about you,” Duck continued, “but I have to piss like a racehorse, and I suspect you’ve had enough excitement for one morning. Meet here tomorrow, same time, for a run and a talk?”

John nodded gratefully; after gulping all that water, he did need the loo rather urgently, and he could definitely use a little space. They stood, and he headed from the office to his room.

~~oOo~~

When he got back there he had cooled off considerably, and the sweat between his shoulder blades had started to feel chilly on his skin. As he entered, he peeled off the hoodie and chucked it on his bed; intending to have a wash and change clothes back into pajamas after using the head.

The bathroom door closed behind him with a clunk, and as he took himself out and started his much-needed piss, his brain caught up and asked him _what was that in my room?_ His brow creased; something had been odd about the quick visual perusal he had made on his beeline from door to loo, but he couldn’t quite place it.

When he was finished and had washed his hands, he stepped back into his room, giving it another, more focused sweep. There! A drape of familiar charcoal fabric lay on the guest chair. _But, where’s -_

“Hello, John,” said an instantly recognizable voice from behind him.

“Sherlock,” John said, turning around, “what are you doing here already? Is everything alright?” His friend stood in the doorway, skin fresh and curls damp as if he had just washed his face. They straggled over his forehead in wet strands and clung to his jaw sinuously.

“Fine,” Sherlock replied, giving John his usual top-to-toe survey. His gaze snagged on John’s chest, and his brow furrowed, followed by a short series of confused blinks. “John,” he continued after a moment, “why don’t you shave for me?”

John blinked. “What?”

“Who do you shave for, then, if not me? Given that I prefer you clean-shaven, if you were refusing to shave for me, you would have a beard by now or that terrible mustache you had briefly years ago. Or do you mean that you don’t give me a shave? Why should you? I can do it myself, or there’s an excellent barber on Porter street who will do an outstanding straight-razor shave for a nominal-”

“Sherlock!” John interrupted the accelerating flood of words before they ran away with them both. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You, John. You seem to need the world to know that your shaving habits are influenced by me.”

John looked blankly at the infuriating man. Then he shook his head. “Nope, still not getting it. What?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and groaned. “You are the one wearing a shirt with my name on it, John, why don’t you tell me what the hell I’m talking about?”

John’s hands flew to his chest in a futile attempt to cover the motto, his face flaming with mortified heat. “Oh my god, this fucking shirt!” he stuttered. “It - well, it was a joke. Mary got it for me. Erm, after I shaved off that moustache. She said I had done it for you, and I snapped that at her, so she had the shirt made and I never wore it. Until you brought it out of my drawer and I thought I might not have that many shirts... and so I put it... on.”

The two men locked gazes for a full, silent minute, and then Sherlock started snickering, John joining him with relief and chagrin. Sherlock came further into the room and quipped, “I don’t mind the shirt, John, as long as you don’t grow the moustache again.”

“Yeah, no hurry for that, ta. I was about to take the shirt off anyway; I took my run with Duck in it and it’s all mucky now,” John remarked as he swept the shirt up over his head, wiping his armpits and lower back with it, then tossing it in a laundry bag on a stand in the corner. He devoutly hoped the facility offered laundry service - if he was going to work like he had on today’s run, his clothes would get pretty ripe in a hurry.

When he glanced up, Sherlock had considerately turned to look out the window, finding something in the garden to stare at. John noticed his cheeks were a bit pink, probably from all the snickering, the prat. John briskly toed off his trainers and dressed in fresh pajamas, unconcernedly dropping trou to slip into the bottoms and picking up the jogging pants to put in the laundry bin.

When he was done, he regarded Sherlock again; he could see his friend’s reflection in the glass and he was still flushed a rosy pink. _Hang on, if I can see him... did he watch me change? That would be odd, even for him._ He stepped over next to his friend. “What’s so interesting, then?” he asked innocently.

“Erm,” his friend replied, clearing his throat, “I thought I saw a hawk moth on those flowers,” he waved vaguely at a swath of bluish-purple spikes of flowers. “Lavender is attractive to bees, of course, but moths are more rare in this area.” He regarded John from the corner of his eye, then swung round back to the chair where his coat lay. “You said you had a run?”

“Oh, yeah. With Duck. Turns out he lost a foot in Iraq, in the same incident that damaged his voice box. Now he uses a prosthetic hook-blade thing for running, and said he does 10km a day with his clients, sometimes more. Made me tired just to hear him say it. The hook is a fascinating piece of technology; perhaps he’d let you come on a run with us sometime to check it out.”

“Hmmm, maybe.” Sherlock’s tone meant _not bloody likely_ , John could tell.

“You laugh now, but he has a theory that exercise helps people work out problems because they think differently; their brains are busy keeping them moving, and so the higher processes can get on with things without constant self-censoring.”

Sherlock scoffed from his seat in the chair. “I don’t censor my thoughts. Sometimes I take a little longer to make the connections if there’s too much input.”

“That’s just what Duck is on about; if you’re focused on exercising, your brain can get on with the sorting that much faster.”

“I’ll take it under advisement.” Sherlock’s flat tone announced the topic was closed.

John snorted. “I’m going to bring it up again when I get out of here, you know. Might be nice to have a running partner.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock’s tone had turned considering.

John sat on his bed and regarded his friend. “You didn’t answer my question, though. Why are you here so early? I didn’t expect you until after lunch. And what about Rosie?”

“She had an arranged day with Mrs. Hudson that I didn’t know about. I’m to collect her after teatime,” Sherlock said. “I had hoped we could spend the afternoon here, but Mrs. Hudson has ‘plans,’ apparently.” his aggrieved tone was mostly put on, but John could tell he was a little anxious.

“That’s alright, I can see her tomorrow,” John suggested, “if you’re willing to bring her by?”

“Of course.” Sherlock asserted.  

“Have you anything else on right now, then? I wouldn’t mind some company,” John suggested. “Though I’m not up for a long walk or anything; my legs are surprisingly tired.” He leaned forward to rub at the back of his left calf, which had started to cramp a little. He’d probably need to stretch it out more later. He cursed at the awkward position of leaning forward to squeeze the meaty part of his lower leg.

Two large hands wrapped around the offending muscle and carefully massaged it, easing the twinges efficiently. It felt wonderful, and John groaned. “Oh, thanks, that’s brilliant!” He let his head tip back while the tightness in his leg was washed away by rhythmic pressure. After a moment, that leg, much relaxed, was released, and the other picked up and given the same treatment.

When it was finished, John stood and bounced on his toes a few times. “God, that’s much better! I was worried I would end up really sore tomorrow. I mean, yeah, give me something else to focus on besides my problems, but I’m not so into pain as all that.” He plopped back down on the bed and snagged Sherlock’s hand to squeeze it. “Thanks.”

Sherlock ducked his head, color back in his cheeks. “It’s nothing.”

They sat for a few minutes, not looking at each other, not speaking, hands clasped. John cast his mind back over the morning, and the talk he’d had with Duck. How he’d realized what a unique place he held in Sherlock’s life (and heart?) and that he’d almost stolen that from his friend.

He cleared his throat, knowing there was something he had to do; it would weigh on him until he said it. “Um, Sherlock,” he began, then trailed off. He’d already had an emotional morning, did he really want to add to it? _Gotta start shoveling somewhere._ “Sherlock,” he tried again, looking up and meeting the inquisitive gaze from his friend. Prismatic pale eyes regarded him and his tongue stilled in his mouth, his lips ceased to form words. He stared into his friend’s face, knowing that the man was waiting for him to speak, but nothing came. He huffed out a frustrated breath.

He tore his eyes away and stood again, looking off to one side. “I, um...”

Next to him, his friend also stood. “John,” he said, “whatever it is, just say it. It’s fine.” He ducked a bit to catch John’s eye, his own dark brows raised in enquiry, faint smile on his face.

John didn’t know where it came from, but he turned, stepped forward, and wrapped his arms around his friend’s rangy body, pressing his cheek to a knobby collarbone. “I’m sorry,” he said, somewhat muffled by his mashed position, “I’m sorry I did this to you. Made you have to go through this, feel all this. It’s not fair to you, and you’ve been so...” the words ran out, so he squeezed his arms tighter around the man he was - yes, he was hugging Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock’s arms had come up around him while he labored through his statement, and now they firmed and splayed across his back. “John, it’s alright,” he said, voice hushed. “It’s alright. I’m sorry too. I should have understood sooner, maybe I could have helped.”

John’s brow knitted in denial and he rolled his head against the lean pectorals under his face. “No - no. You aren’t responsible for any of this,” he stated. “Don’t go taking this on yourself. You did everything you could to help. I’m grateful.” He looked up, into Sherlock’s startled eyes looking down on him. “And I want you to know - it won’t happen again. You and Rosie, I won’t do this to you ever again. Okay?” He hid his face back in his friend’s chest and tightened his arms again.

He felt the weight of Sherlock’s cheek come to rest on his head, and the long arms around him were strong and warm, enclosing him gently. “Yes, John. It’s...” a long sigh ruffled his hair, tickling his head and making him snort against Sherlock’s throat. A shiver passed through his friend. “It’s very okay. Thank you.”

They stood like that for a few more minutes, long enough for John to become aware of how relaxed, how _good_ this embrace made him feel. Not anxious, not upset or embarrassed or uncomfortable; this felt right. Like the massage on his calves had made the cramps disappear, this hug made some unnameable, constant discomfort vanish, leaving behind quiet peace. _I wonder if this could be something we do now, like the hands,_ John thought. _I could be okay with that, I think._

Just the thought had his insides squirming; the voice of his British male upbringing was spluttering and demanding that he stop this unmanly, demonstrative aberration and resume his stiff-upper-lip, all-blokes-together isolation immediately. He didn’t want to. He wanted to cling to his friend and the shelter of this moment for as long as he could. He shut his eyes and told that little voice to fuck right off, thank you very much.

It was after perhaps another minute of stillness that the moment ended with the loud chiming of Sherlock’s mobile. Both John and Sherlock tensed, then sprang apart as though someone had jumped into the room and yelled ‘boo!’ Neither seemed inclined to look the other in the eyes, and Sherlock lunged for his coat to see what the alert had been about. John walked to the window and willed his flaming cheeks to cool.

Behind him, a satisfied ‘Ha!’ sounded. He spun, to see Sherlock putting on his coat. “Something up?” he asked.

“Yes. A case! Lestrade wants me to come look at a murder scene. They think they have the killer in hand, but something about it is not sitting well with our friend the DI, so he wants me to look it over before the forensics people stomp all over everything.” His grin was wide and lively, and his eyes sparkled with anticipation.

John tried to cover his disappointment with cheer. “Hey, that’s great! Well, you’d best get going, then. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” He clapped his friend on the shoulder and tried to smile convincingly.

“Ah - yes, that reminds me,” Sherlock shoved a hand deep into one of the pockets of his greatcoat and produced a lumpy package wrapped in a clean cotton handkerchief. “Don’t let them see you using this, or it’ll be no pudding for a fortnight!” His mock-stern frown and shaken finger were so unexpected as to make John burst out with a startled giggle as he accepted the package.

“What’s this, then?” he asked, starting to unwrap it, and gasping when he saw what he held. “Sherlock, this is my phone! I’m not supposed to have it here!” He had started to raise his voice, then abruptly dropped it to a whisper, as though pastel-clad nurses would storm the room if they overheard him.

“Dull, John. Those rules are for people who have active drug problems or might send out for a pizza because they’re bored. You will use this to text with me, and possibly to answer your emails, but you’re not a risk to the powers that be.” Sherlock fixed him with a sharp stare. “And you won’t get caught with it, will you?”

John caught a wide grin blooming on his face. “I think I can manage that. Alright then, don’t keep Lestrade waiting.”

Sherlock nodded emphatically. “If I finish before it’s time to pick up young Watson, I’ll come by again.” With that, he was out the door, polished shoes tapping on the hallway tiles.

John turned on his phone and when it had booted up, he pulled up the text app to send a text, tongue poking out a little as he jabbed at the letters.

 **Thank you. - JW**  


	10. Facing All The Mistakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: this chapter discusses a crime that involves an adult in sexual relationship with a boy of 15. He is not physically harmed, but is involved in a murder investigation, and has not had a kind life. If this will be uncomfortable for you and you'd like to skip it, jump down past the texting sections and resume when John is in session with Duck.

John kept his mobile in his dressing gown pocket, set to vibrate so as not to attract attention from the staff. He wandered around the garden, preoccupied with the device that bumped against his leg with each step. After a while, his tired thighs reminded him that he’d had an active morning, and he settled on the quiet bench under the giant beech. He checked the phone; no messages, but several bars of service, so no reason for them to be delayed. He pocketed it again and sighed. 

_ I hugged Sherlock, and I liked it, _ drifted absently through his mind, like it had been waiting to come to his attention until he was finished distracting himself. He was hit with a sense memory of Sherlock’s lanky body against his, cheek resting on his head, warmth surrounding him. John sighed again, wrapping his own arms around himself in a poor approximation of that comfort. What must Sherlock think about all this? John kept waiting for his friend to get tired of having to cater to John’s needs, his weakness.  

Now Sherlock had gone off to a case. Was this an indicator that his energetic friend was getting bored? Would he stop coming around to see John, bringing Rosie for a visit, being his link to the outside? Just the thought made him feel a bit nervously ill and preemptively lonely.

None of his other friends had come to visit him in hospital - though to be quite honest, he was rather glad they hadn’t. His despair wasn’t something he wanted people to see; bad enough that he broke down in front of Sherlock. Having to make nice for Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade at his bedside would have been pretty unbearable, to be quite honest. 

Maybe Sherlock had warned them off; it seemed like something he would do. 

His pocket buzzed, and John scrabbled in his dressing gown for his phone. 

**At the morgue. Lestrade was right, there’s something off about this case. SH**

**What to do you make of these? SH**

John smiled and began typing his response awkwardly. 

**_You should tell him that. He might faint._ **

As he hit send, a photo arrived. It showed a pale female torso, breasts unforgivingly exposed, covered with angry red welts and a few shining red spots on the skin. He blinked, then scrutinized the photo more closely. 

**_What am I looking at, exactly?_ **

**Woman is a stylist at a high-end salon. She was strangled with a salon cape, had these marks under her clothes. Clothes were put back on her by someone else; they mis-hooked her brassiere and left straps twisted. Also signs of binding around wrists. SH**

John pursed his lips and his brow furrowed. He had seen marks like that before, but not of that severity. Those looked like second-degree burns, or acid burns, but the patterns were similar to ones he’d seen on his roommate in Uni whose girlfriend had been into a bit of kink. They’d been playing with candle wax and blindfolds and he hadn’t expected the marks on his skin, so he’d brought it to his doctor-in-training mate to diagnose. 

**_Are those burns?_ **

**Yes SH**

**_Any sign of sexual assault or activity?_ **

A few minutes passed, and John waited impatiently. 

**Had to look. Yes, activity. No signs of force. SH**

**_Might be consensual, then. Marks are consistent with wax play, though look to be done with wax that was way too hot. Shouldn’t leave second-degree burns like that._ **

Another few minutes passed, while John wondered what was happening at the other end of the tenuous connection he had with Sherlock.  

**Lestrade suggests it was not consensual. Victim had ex-husband who had sworn to kill her in front of witnesses. Divorce would have been final in three days. Ex in custody, says he didn’t do it. He knows something he’s not saying. I’m reserving judgment. SH**

John frowned again. Spouses were implicated in murders so often they were an almost automatic arrest unless they were out of country or something, but if Sherlock wasn’t convinced...

**_So, what do you think happened?_ **

The little screen showed the “...” of Sherlock typing, while John perched restively on the edge of the bench. Suddenly the device blipped and text bloomed across it, describing missing defensive wounds or violence on the body (aside from the possibly consensual burns, and the strangulation marks) and the evidence of consensual sex on the victim. Likely a tryst at the salon, just before death occurred. 

John chuckled at Sherlock’s delicate choice of words: “physical relations” instead of just ‘sex.’ Sometimes his friend exhibited an endearing innocence without even noticing he had done it. John appreciated how it humanized the man who deliberately projected an aura of emotionless hauteur to keep inconvenient intimacy at bay. 

_ Except with you, _ a tiny voice whispered. His spine straightened as the thought passed, suspicion coloring his attitude toward anything his internal voice had to say. Look at the trouble his thoughts had caused! Was there danger in noticing that his usually ascetic friend had thawed so far as to offer physical comfort when John had needed it? Or that Sherlock had seemed to - dare he say it - enjoy the contact as much as John had? Certainly he hadn’t pushed John away, he’d let their hug go on until his phone rang.  

John decided to file the thought away, and keep a distrustful eye in that direction, in case it developed into something he needed to guard against.  

The phone blipped again, telling John they were on their way to the crime scene so Sherlock could have a look around. John groaned internally, knowing that he was invested in this case now, and would be waiting anxiously for Sherlock to update him. He ran a hand through his hair, and glanced at his phone again, noting the time - 12:32P. 

Well, he could have lunch at least; that would occupy him for a bit. He stood up and headed into the facility, slipping the phone back into his pocket and sliding his fingers across the smooth surface of it, like a worry stone. 

~~oOo~~

The rest of the afternoon passed in a mix of impatience and flurries of avid texting on his phone, hidden away on the bench in the garden or in his room with the door closed against accidental discovery. As the day went on, a picture of the dead woman’s last hours began to emerge. Evidence of an assignation with a lover was ‘all over the place’ according to Sherlock’s scornful series of statements when they arrived at the salon. His comments about the forensics staff who had initially scouted the scene were such that John devoutly hoped he had not said them aloud, as they would likely earn him a punch to the nose. 

In fact, he sent off a text to Lestrade, just in case. 

**_Hi, Lestrade, it’s John. I’ve gotten some texts from Sherlock about the case. Keep an eye on him, if you would - he seems a bit in a strop, from what I’m getting. Maybe keep your staff from smacking him?_ **

**John, Hi! I hear you’re feeling a bit better, that’s great. We’ll go out for a pint when you’re back home. His Nibs is fine, texting away like a teen girl with a secret, and calling everyone John when he’s not paying attention. It’s been an effort not to take the piss.**

John chuckled at that, something warm settling in his belly at this report of Sherlock’s behavior.  _ He really does care about me, _ John thought. He had another flash memory of their hug, and the warm feeling spread outward from his belly all the way to his fingers and toes. 

He thanked Lestrade, and then attended to the next series of texts from Sherlock. The detective had heard from one of his homeless network who were squatting in the vacant building across the back alley from the salon, that a young man was often seen sneaking in the back after closing. Very young, in fact - perhaps not even over the age of consent. The informant reported he dressed tough, lots of denim and zippers and studs, and he drove a motorbike, but described him as having ‘a sweet face.’ The victim sometimes met him at the back door and they would leave together, or sometimes he’d go in for a few hours. John grimaced at the description - it seemed the victim was not so innocent herself, taking advantage of such a young lover.

Sherlock’s texts tapered off while he tracked down the young man. He and Lestrade laid hands on the suspect in the flat where he was staying, and brought him to the Yard to talk to him. It didn’t take long for the whole story to come out. That the boy was traumatized by what had happened came through clearly, despite Sherlock’s clinical descriptions. 

Yes, the stylist had taken him as a lover about eight months ago, just after his fifteenth birthday. He had been overwhelmed by this grown woman who had introduced him to adult pleasures, he’d do anything for her. When she suggested a celebration for her divorce coming through, he was at a loss, what to do? The boy confessed his confusion to his mentor, a man who he’d been paired up with a few months ago through a program at his school when they found out he had moved out of his parents’ house after endless fights about his girlfriend.

The mentor suggested he put together a kinky evening, and even gave him instructions on what to do, how to apply the wax (which was plentiful in the salon) and how to tie the salon’s cape into a blindfold. 

John shifted uncomfortably on his bed while he waited for the next text; he felt for the boy, who even through Sherlock’s brief sentences came across as bewildered and shattered by what he was recounting. His phone blipped, and he leaned back to it.

Following the mentor’s instructions, the boy blindfolded and bound his lover, securing her to a chair using the salon cape wound into a rope around her neck and another around her waist and wrists. He applied the overly hot wax, and when the woman struggled against the pain, he dashed to the front of the salon to bring a first aid kit, frantic with distress. When he returned, she hung limp in the chair, dead. The boy assumed she must have strangled while straining to get out of the chair to escape the pain, and he panicked. He untied her, removed the cooled wax globules from her skin, dressed her, and then ran for it. 

John frowned. It didn’t seem likely that a person, even one hurting with a dozen small, painful burns, could deliberately choke themselves to death while tied to a chair without some other factor in play. 

**_Sherlock, ask him how long it took to get the 1st aid kit._ ** John texted, and waited tensely for the answer.

**Said it took about five or ten minutes, he had trouble finding it. SH**

**_Seems unlikely she could have choked sitting in a chair? It wasn’t tipped forward, or anything?_ **

**No, and I agree. But there’s little evidence to contradict the story. She was strangled. She had the marks he describes. We’re missing something. SH**

**_You’ll find it._ **

John blew out a breath, mulling over the story Sherlock had related. Sounded like the kid had not had the best parents, letting him drive all over on a motorbike and then chucking him out as soon as they found out he had a lover. At least the school had tried to match him up with another adult mentor, but clearly the odds were against the unlucky youth in the quality of the person he was paired with - who gives advice like that to a teenager? John would like to give that arsehole a piece of his mind. John jabbed angrily at the buttons.

**_Make sure Lestrade gets that mentor fired._** **_Without the terrible advice from that bastard, this would never have happened._**

The little “...” appeared and blinked for a minute or so, then disappeared again. John frowned, waiting, then sent a simple  **“** **_?”_ **  No answer. He waited a little more, then sent a text to Lestrade, desperate to know what was occurring.

**_Hey Greg, what’s happened, did someone punch him after all? Sherlock’s stopped texting._ **

**He’s had one of those moments of his. Did you send something? He said “John, I could kiss you!” and dashed out of the room.**

**Just had a call from holding. He’s apparently down there now. I’ll keep you posted.**

John leaned back on his pillows, wondering what was going on. He looked out the big window, and was surprised to see it had gotten dark - his own reflection looked back at him, eyes bright, back straight, looking ready to spring into the fray at any moment. It was the version of himself he liked the most; the man of action and purpose who knew what he was doing and why. It felt like a long time since he had seen that man - he had known working with Sherlock brought it out in him, but here he could see the evidence writ large. He grinned at himself in the impromptu mirror, then got up to turn this way and that, striking a cheeky pose in his dressing gown and slippers. Then he stuck out his tongue at his reflection and took the opportunity to use the loo, since he was already up. 

When he finished, he was just about to check the time when his phone blipped again and he lunged for it. 

**John, you were right. Went down to holding to snap a picture of the husband. Boy has identified him as his mentor, though under a different name. SH**

John’s jaw dropped. The husband had been playing a long game, if he had befriended his soon-to-be ex-wife’s young lover some months before. What a fucked-up thing to do. John felt keenly for the poor kid who had been manipulated by both partners in that relationship.  


**Explained to husband that the game was up, we knew everything, the boy had identified him. Cracked like an egg. SH**

**Snuck into the salon while boy was fetching 1st aid kit, strangled the wife. SH**

**There was a life insurance policy. Isn’t there always? SH**

**He’s still talking. Confessed to nicking some shampoo from the salon on his way out. Burst into tears when I mentioned it hadn’t done anything for his dandruff. SH**

And after a few minutes of silence - 

**Thank god they’ve taken him away. Lestrade says I can go, but Amina has already picked up Rosamund from Mrs. Hudson. I could come by? SH**

John huffed a laugh. He was  _ asking _ John? 

**_Of course, that would be great._ **

**Chinese? SH**

**_Starving, ha. You’ll have to smuggle it in or the other patients might mug you for it. The menu said pasta casserole for dinner - third time this month, according to that tosser in the yellow dressing gown. They’re plotting a mutiny._ **

**Better keep your phone hidden or they’ll nick it and order a raft of pizzas. SH**

**_I’d like to see them try._ **

John hit send with a smile on his face. 

~~oOo~~

The next day’s ‘run and talk’, as Duck liked to call it, was rough. John’s body protested the repeated exercise, his sore legs were leaden and his wind seemed to desert him. He called a halt after only two rounds of the garden, and walked back and forth, blowing hard. “Dammit!” he growled, embarrassed at his poor performance.

“Not to worry, John, it’s to be expected,” Duck assured him, bouncing on his hook and hardly breathing hard. “You’ll see, by end of week you’ll be back on that third lap, and I’ll bet you a fiver you’ll settle at five laps as your comfortable distance. 7.5 klicks is a respectable goal, right?” 

John shot him a disbelieving glare, “I’ll believe that when it happens.” 

“Anyway, let’s trot back to the office for some stretches and the talking part,” Duck said.

John grumbled all the way back, but shoveling shit wasn’t supposed to be fun. Or easy. Lucky him. 

By the time they made it to the office, had drunk their glasses of water, and stretched out tight leg muscles, John’s good humor had somewhat returned. 

“I’m sorry I bitched like that,” he offered, as they settled in their respective seats. “It’s kind of shit, getting old, isn’t it?”

“Hmm, yeah, and I’ve got ten years on you, sonny Jim,” Duck croaked in a lisping accent that made him sound like a toothless old codger, then cracked up with his painful-sounding laugh. “Don’t be too discouraged, John. I’ve done this enough times to know you’ll see steady improvement from here on out.” 

“Well, you’re the expert. What should we talk about?”

“That’s entirely up to you. What’s on your mind?” Duck settled more comfortably in his chair, and waited. Since Duck had made it clear that he would listen to anything John might reveal without batting an eyelash, John decided to start to fill him in on the last year or so of his life since that was what led up to him being in Duck’s care in the first place. 

He started with his marriage, how Sherlock had helped with the wedding, been his best man, given a surprisingly heartfelt speech that turned into a murder investigation at his reception. He got so caught up in the story, John let it slip that Mary had been an assassin as he recounted how Rosie came into his life. He had been talking about being separated from Mary for most of her pregnancy, living at Baker Street and helping Sherlock recuperate from his spouse-inflicted gunshot wound. Duck merely said, “That’s a pretty intense revelation, John. I can understand how hard that would be to come to grips with.” 

John snorted. “Understatement of the year, mate. I suppose it’s a bit late to be asking now, but... how’s your security clearance? And can I rely on your discretion about what I say here? I’d hate to wake up to MI5 at my bedside tomorrow; their people are so serious all the time.” He raised an eyebrow and smiled lopsidedly to indicate the joke. 

Duck looked nonplussed for a moment as he digested this. “I don’t have clearance for anything really serious, so keep that in mind. But as for the privacy of what you tell me: as long as you aren’t a threat to yourself or others - and my judgement there is pretty keen, after my career, I can tell you - then I won’t discuss what is said here with anyone without your permission. It would hardly serve you to feel like I’d spill your secrets, would it?”

“I suppose it’s not a surprise to hear that I’ve done things that are not strictly legal since I’ve been back - hurt people, shot them, even,” John said, “but generally, up until these last few months, it was always things I could justify to protect innocent people or my friends, or in pursuit of criminals, with Scotland Yard’s... well, not approval, but knowledge, and they were willing to overlook it.” He sighed. “That’s part of what landed me here, I guess. I’d lost my grip on what qualified as acceptable behavior in a situation. Started to get angry enough to get violent with those same people I was protecting. Sherlock... even Rosie, though I never hurt her, thank god. I don’t think I could forgive myself for that.” John stared blankly into space, his mind apparently full of what could have happened if he had not been able to control himself with his daughter. 

  “A few weeks before I... you know... I beat a man almost to death. He was a criminal, and I was ninety-five percent certain he was the murderer we were looking for. Sherlock was even more certain and only wanted to gather some evidence to give to the Yard so he’d be convicted, but the bloke clued into us tailing him and did a runner. He caught Sherlock coming around a corner and knocked the wind out of him with a blow to the stomach, and it was like I just... dissociated, checked out of my mind, I don’t know how to describe it. The next thing I remember, Sherlock was pulling me off him, and I’d beaten him to a pulp - broken his arm and ribs and jaw, ruptured a kidney, collapsed his lung. It was touch and go for him for a bit. I nearly killed him and I didn’t remember doing it.” John blinked rapidly, his throat tightening as he remembered the whimpering man on the ground. “I was so angry, I almost jumped back on him to finish the job. I wanted to pound him into a smear on the pavement; if Sherlock hadn’t held me back, I would have done.” 

John wiped a tear from his cheek.  _ Just the one, Watson, no need for the waterworks today, is there? _ “That’s... so much the opposite of everything I should be, d’you see? I’m a doctor, for god’s sake, we take an oath. We help people! How am I supposed to trust myself, now? I don’t know how to be sure it doesn’t happen again.” He dropped his face into his hands and said hoarsely, “It can’t happen again, Duck. It’s why... it’s why I took those pills, because I’d hurt Sherlock, without meaning to, over and over, and I couldn’t stand to be a danger to him like that.” 

Duck sat silently for a moment, obviously thinking hard and choosing his words with care. “I’ve been where you are, John. I’ve worked with a hundred men and women who asked that same question. Yeah, most of them didn’t have the stresses you do, didn’t hunt criminals for a living, but I’ve had one or two coppers over the years.” He smiled, a little wistfully. “One thing has come clear to me through all our stories, and bear with me here...”

Duck leaned in, hands clasped together between his knees, eyes intent on John’s face. “We live in a civilized society - of course we can argue about what that means, but at its base it means we won’t randomly bludgeon each other to get the things we need. That’s why we have laws against things like murder and assault. We learn that decent folk don’t beat each other, we internalize that restraint from when we’re children until it is as much a part of us as toilet training, ingrained, hard-coded. 

So, when you become a soldier, when you go to war, you have to learn how to throw that switch that makes it impossible for a civilized person to deliberately hurt another human being. You have to overcome that ingrained restraint in order to do your job on the battlefield, and you do it until it becomes instinctual, so you can protect your fellow soldiers and accomplish your missions. Then, you come home, and people expect you to be able to just turn it off again. Be civilized. 

And we do, for the most part. We rejoin our lives and if all goes well, we're never faced with a situation where we're tempted to throw that switch, and it’s easy-peasy to be civilized again. But you, John - we’ve only been talking for a few days and I already know you've had more of a battle here than you ever did in Afghanistan. You've been put in situations where you felt you needed to throw that switch, again and again, here at home - for very justifiable reasons, I have no doubt. And so, the switch in your mind has become... loose. It switches when you didn't quite mean it to, when you had your finger on it but you hadn't pushed yet, maybe it just flipped when you barely waved in its direction.  

So, you recognized that your switch was loose, that it was flipping at the wrong times, or for the wrong reasons. And that was dangerous to people you cared about; it was making you into someone you didn't want to be. You tried to fix it, but you didn't know how and it didn’t work. So you did the only thing you could think of to do - you tried to cut the power to the switch by cutting power to the whole house.” Duck leaned forward earnestly, his face grave but body language relaxed. “You had a close call, but luckily for us all, you told me yesterday that you understand what the bigger repercussions of cutting the power would be. So, we’re back to fixing the switch.” 

Duck dropped his head for a moment, thinking, then looked John directly in the eyes. “People have done it, John, made the changes you want to make. There’s a different solution for each person, but the first step is figuring out why it’s important to do it. You’re already that far. Next is to stay conscious. Meaning be aware of your emotional state. Set a sentry in your mind to watch for trouble so you can see it coming and either get out of the situation, or decide what you’re going to do, with your eyes open.” 

He stood and went to pour them each a glass of water, giving John a bit of space to absorb that concept. “There’s a lot of different ways to do that second part, and what works is going to be unique to you. Some do martial arts, especially ones that teach philosophies for when to use those skills. Some folks work out their problems on a punching bag or in a boxing ring. I had one guy who made loads of bread by hand so he could knead out his feelings on the dough. It was delicious bread, too. Some meditate, or do yoga, or just practice until they get good at asking themselves how they’re feeling, checking on whether they’re close to flipping their switch.”

Duck sat back down and drank deeply from his glass. “You have time to figure out what will work for you, now that you’re awake to it.”

“Yeah, I guess I do,” John said thoughtfully. “How do I decide what to try?”

“Well, what catches your fancy? I can start you on yoga, while you’re here. Didn’t you say your daughter’s nanny was into Aikido? Take a class with her and see if it feels good. Try stuff as you come across it. Know anyone who boxes? Or dances tango? Or does pottery? Learn something new. You don’t have to make it a religion or anything, just something to keep you in that awake state, not getting bogged down in your own mind, reacting without thinking.”

“Hmmm.” John was nodding. His acquaintances had varied interests, and he could think of half a dozen possible outlets to check. Not pottery, though. Sherlock had enough things to break in their lives. He snorted a chuckle at the thought.

There was that feeling again, making his lips stretch into a smile. Hope - it felt wonderful. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued thanks for those reading along as this is posted; your encouragement has kept me writing despite a very busy time in RL. I hope this continues to satisfy! Updates will be erratic but as often as I can make them. :)


	11. Does That Mean You're Right

For the next week, John ran and talked with Duck each morning. John usually got tired at around the four or five kilometer mark, but noticed that he was less knackered as the days went on. His sore muscles screamed at him that second morning, but by day four had muted to general grumbling discomfort each time he settled into the loping pace that Duck favored. He knew from experience that the best thing for muscle pain from exercising was more of the same (without overdoing it) and he found Duck to be a careful and considerate running mate.

Some days he talked as he ran, some days not, waiting until they were settled in the office to have a discussion. Duck didn’t push for confidences or emotional revelations, letting John lead the conversation where it needed to go and encouraging him if he stalled. The talking was hard work for John regardless. He found himself filling Duck in about the past few years in bits and snatches - Sherlock’s return from the dead, Mary’s impact on his life and her unexpected death, casework with Sherlock, life before Sherlock fell from the roof of Bart’s. He stuck to the facts, mostly, not wanting to dig too deeply into those wounds so thinly scabbed over, that had been fuel for the desperate act that ended with him in Duck’s care. Duck accepted his skittering around the edges of the real issues, asking an insightful question from time to time that had John thinking hard for the rest of the day.

His recounting was interspersed with recollections about his time in Afghanistan: something he had hardly ever discussed with anyone who hadn’t been there with him. He talked about the soldiers he’d saved, and some he hadn’t.

On this day, about a week after he’d arrived, he was talking about the time he’d patched up an insurgent who he’d just shot in the thigh when the masked figure had threatened his unit with a kalashnikov knock-off. How he had frozen with shock for a moment upon discovering a youth of not more than 16 under the draped clothing. And he spoke of the shaking, hyperventilating reaction he’d had when he returned to base, crouched alone on the floor of the room he shared with another Captain who was out on patrol for a few days.

Major Sholto had found him there, had gathered him tight in strong arms and poured shots of rotgut whisky into him until he stopped trembling. They had talked for a few hours until it seemed like he could, just possibly, get to sleep that night. There had been a twanging, humming tension rising between the two men as they talked and drank, that put John on edge even as it relieved the pressure on his nerves. Just before he left, the Major gazed at John in silence for a few long minutes, an unspoken question in his eyes that John didn’t understand. When no answer was forthcoming, Sholto had smiled his thin smile, nodded to John and left.  

“I had no idea what that part was about, though I was... so grateful for James’ company. Several times, it would happen like that when things got really bad out there. I’d get the shakes, or he’d have a terrible day and then James would find me and drink with me and hold me while I freaked out, and then just sort of... look at me.” John trailed off with a look of puzzlement on his face.

“How’d that make you feel? What do you think was going on there?” Duck asked.

“Well...” John squirmed a bit on the sofa. “A few of my mates in the unit thought he might have been a little... fixated... on me. And after I was injured and sent home, I heard that he had - erm - taken up with one of the squaddies who they used to tease because he looked alot like me.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably.   

“Had you ever considered anything with him? It’s not unheard of in situations like that. Were you intrigued, or disgusted, or anything?” Duck persisted. “We’ve not talked about anything along these lines before, so I’m just trying to get a feel for where you fall on that spectrum, y’see.” He leaned back in his chair, entirely relaxed and apparently only academically interested.

“Huh, yeah, I get it. No, I’d never considered James that way. He was my CO of course, and that’s frowned on as you know. But I considered him a friend, a good friend, but not anything more than that.” John furrowed his brow and looked pointedly at Duck. “I’m not gay, in case that’s what you’re asking. It’s all fine to me what people are, I’m not homophobic - it just hasn’t been... my area.” He snorted to himself. “I’ve always been interested in women, you see.” John also leaned back into the sofa, obviously trying to seem nonchalant while holding an unexpected tension underneath. “Seems like the rest of the world wishes that were different though; most everyone assumes Sherlock and I are together, or who knows what. It gets a little irritating after a while.”

Duck nodded philosophically. “I’m sure it does. ‘Course, gay’s not the only option, you know. Sexuality is fluid, and can change over time. From what you’ve told me, Sherlock holds a very special place in your life, and maybe people are picking up on that. How does he feel about people making that assumption?”

John frowned. “What?”

“Well, Sherlock must be there sometimes when people assume things about the two of you. Has he ever said anything to you about it?” Duck raised a mildly inquiring eyebrow as he asked this question. John narrowed his eyes and took a moment to think. Duck had a knack of looking the most casual when he had just asked something that could turn John’s thinking completely on its head, and John distrusted that eyebrow.  “He doesn’t feel things like that, I don’t think, it’s part of his... unique outlook.”

Even as the words came out of his mouth, that tiny voice spoke in the back of his mind, as it had more and more frequently all week. _Except with you,_ it whispered. _Since all this happened, look how he’s been, with you - for you._ He furrowed his brow as he tried to reconcile the hand-holding, the cautious hugs that had offered such comfort. There had been more of them, all week long, and it was starting to be hard to believe John was the only one getting something out of them.  

For instance, the evening after Sherlock had solved the stylist case and smuggled in Chinese takeaway for them both, John had been subdued and ecstatic by turns. The thrill of solving a case - and of playing a useful part even if just over text - was exhilarating, and Sherlock’s praise all the more precious for being so rare. It was balanced by the sickened sadness and pity he held for the boy who had been pivotal to the whole mess. More had come to light about the lad’s home life that had John pushing away sympathetic recollections more than once; an abusive father who was a drinker, a mother too lost in her own pain to protect her only child.

John had snapped out of the abstracted stare where his unpleasant thoughts had led him as his carton of dumplings was taken out of his hands and set aside. Next he was drawn to his feet by large, warm hands, and wiry arms wrapped around him without a word said. He stiffened and tipped his head back to offer Sherlock a look of profound puzzlement.

“You looked like you could use it,” Sherlock said soberly. “And it seemed to help, earlier. Alright?” The tall body clasping him held a taut rigidity, ready to spring away at the tiniest hint of rejection.

John looked searchingly at his friend for another moment; then, still having said nothing, raised his own arms around Sherlock and dropped his cheek onto the warm chest in front of him, exhaling a long breath and closing his eyes. The tension in the body against him drained away as the seconds passed, until they both merely stood, relaxed and breathing against each other.

This time, no shrill ringing broke the moment, and neither man seemed inclined to step back with any sort of haste. For John’s part, he concentrated on the sensations of being comforted and held, of letting someone else take his burden for a bit. He could easily get used to having this feeling in his life more often; he suspected he’d come to crave it if he wasn’t careful. _Would that be so bad? To take it if it’s offered?_

And it was offered, almost every day thereafter. The next afternoon, Sherlock had arrived with Rosie to find John wilted and distraught after an emotional session with Duck where they had discussed his being shot and invaliding out of the army. No matter how he tried to think of something else, John kept coming back to the hopelessness he had felt when the nightmares were unceasing and there seemed to be nothing for him except his limp and the dim bedsit with the drawer where he kept his gun.

Sherlock deposited Rosie on the floor of John’s room on a blanket, then turned to look at John enquiringly, hands turned out in an ‘I’m here, if you want one,’ gesture. It had taken only a moment for John to step forward and cling tightly, breathing slow and deep, smelling Sherlock’s pine-and-spice aftershave and London air in the fibers of his coat.

After that, the gesture wasn’t even needed; Sherlock would give John one of his top-to-toe scrutinies, and, according to some criteria he did not deign to share, either embrace John for as long as they cared to, or launch into whatever topic was on his mind at the moment. John caught him making spot checks from time to time if John seemed distracted, and was sure to offer a hug at the slightest provocation. Perhaps Sherlock was as touch-starved as John was discovering himself to be? Sherlock held him like he was convinced John would push him away at any moment - careful, so careful - and John got the sense that he was memorizing each instance as it happened.

_Don’t think you’ve got anything to worry about there, Sherlock. I haven’t turned you down even once, yet._

“John?” A horrible rasping croak broke his reverie. He shook the memories off, and regarded Duck sheepishly.

“Where’d you go this time?” Duck asked with a smile. It was typical of how he prompted John to share, if he wanted, what was running through his mind when he dropped out of the conversation.

John considered what he wanted to say. “I was thinking about Sherlock,” he began, “and your question, whether he’d ever said anything when people assumed we were a couple. I can’t remember a single time that he has, to be honest, and it’s happened plenty of times over the years. Not to deny it to the person who made the accusation, and not to talk about it with me. Not ever.” Silence fell between them for a minute, the muffled chatter of birds audible through the huge windows at their side.

“Is it wrong to be gay, John?” Duck asked pointedly.

John bristled defensively. “What? No, no, of course not. What people do together is none of my business, as long as it doesn’t land them in my surgery.” He was disconcerted by the very direct tone of the question.

“Is it wrong for _you_ to be with a man?” Duck persisted.

John’s mouth opened to retort indignantly, and he felt his cheeks heat up, but no words formed in his mind. He tried again - nothing.

“Only, you used an interesting word choice a minute ago, y’see, John.” Duck spoke as gently as his ravaged throat would allow. “You said ‘the person who made the accusation.’ You get accused of a crime, John. You’re accused of doing something wrong. Which made me wonder whether there might be room for some more thinking there.” Duck leaned back into his chair, lessening the intensity of his body language as he delivered this pronouncement, but John was still floored by what he said.

“I’ve -” he began, then trailed off, his expressive face wrinkling with confusion. “I...” he blew out a breath. “My sister is a lesbian,” he blurted, “and when she came out, it was... not easy, at home, yeah? It was the year before my parents died in a car crash, and that last year was utter hell for us all.” He scrubbed his face with his hands.

“There was a lot of fighting, and my old man... was a drinker. A mean drunk, hit my mum more times than I can count, hit me, hit Harry. When she came out, he got meaner still. Vicious. Said once he’d beat it out of her, there weren’t no queer Watsons, threatened to have one of his mates ‘give her what she needed.’” Unconsciously, John’s voice took on a different accent, a coarser, deeper register, as he mimicked his father’s threats. “I cut in on that fight before he could really get going on her, and he dislocated my shoulder. She moved out the next day.”

Duck nodded somberly. “How old were you when that happened, John?”

“Fourteen, I’d just turned fourteen the month before.” John rotated his scarred shoulder absently, obviously seeing those events in his mind’s eye. From his expression, they were not pleasant memories.

“John,” Duck called, returning his client’s attention back to the present. “Would you say it’s possible those events might have colored your attitudes as time went on? Perhaps it would be worth spending some time with that. If you go off and have a think, and decide that no, you have never been attracted to another man in your whole life and that’s not even relevant, well then - you’ve plumbed it to the bottom and can put it away, done and dusted. But it’s just possible that there’s more to John Watson than you might have known up to now. It’s a cheesy cliché, yeah, but knowledge is power, John. If you know yourself fully, there’s less opportunity for life to blindside you into responses you don’t want, yeah?”

John scrutinized Duck skeptically. “What aren’t you saying here, Duck? You’re dancing around something.”

Duck huffed a breathy chuckle. “I am, because I think it’s one of those things you need to suss out for yourself. Ask me again another day.”

John furrowed his brow and frowned.

“Actually...” Duck offered, “that brings me to something we ought to talk about. You’ve been here a week, and in hospital for two days before that. How are you doing? How are you feeling?”

John blinked. It felt like hardly any time had passed at all, and yet, as though he’d only ever been here, and the difficult events he remembered were some elaborate dream. But, how did he actually _feel_?

Safe. Cocooned away from the real world and protected from the problems that had brought him low. “Better,” he hedged, “why are you asking?” He thought he knew, and he licked his lips nervously.

“Well, as you’ve probably guessed, I think we are ready to talk about when you would go home.”

John squirmed in his chair. Thinking about being back home, playing with Rosie, going on cases with Sherlock, even just talking to Amina or Mrs Hudson, filled him with uncomfortable shame. _They know what I did,_ he thought. _What must they think?_

“I dunno,” he said. “Am I really ready?” He felt the creeping heat of a flush coming up the back of his neck, and rubbed at it with an unexpectedly sweaty hand, then wiped that on his jogging bottoms.  

“You tell me,” Duck said. “Are you?”

“I’m not so sure,” John confessed. “I haven’t really spoken to anyone except Sherlock, since I... got in here.”

“And you’re worried what people will think, hmm?” Duck countered. “That behind your back, or right to your face, they’ll say you’re weak, less of a man, can’t cope?” His bright eyes in his lined face bored into John’s own with unforgiving intensity. “That you cracked and took the easy way out? That you’re a loser, a whiner, a pussy? That you don’t love them enough?” He leaned forward aggressively, and his ragged voice made these accusations  - _yes, these are accusations, aren’t they? -_ sound even more brutal than the hurtful words themselves.

John reared back against the sofa cushions in shock at the forceful tirade. His heart was beating fast and his breathing shallow, and his fingers and toes tingled with an abrupt fight or flight response. “What the fuck?” he gritted out.

Duck’s weathered countenance gentled, his eyes full of something tender. “John, think about the people you know. The people who matter, I mean. Are they likely to be anything but relieved to have you home, and happy that you’re getting back on your feet? Be honest, now.”

John closed his eyes and took deep, measured breaths while he got himself under control. He thought of the people he saw all the time - Amina, Mrs Hudson, even Lestrade. Would they judge him so harshly? He couldn’t imagine that they would. _I’m the one judging myself harshly, and look where that got me, hmm?_ Oh, sure, Mrs Hudson would fuss, and they’d all be watching him for signs of relapse for a while, but they’d do it because they cared. _There are worse tortures than people caring about you, I suppose._

“I can’t imagine they would ever say anything like that,” John snarked. “But I get what you were trying to do. Bloody hell, Duck.”

Duck smiled wide and nodded. “Sometimes just fucking putting it out there, pulling the plaster in one go, can shake you up in a necessary way. This facility is wonderful for helping people come back from the brink,” he pierced John with his intense stare again. “But you won’t learn how to stay healthy in your own life unless you go back to it at some point.”

He raised his clasped hands to his lips and spoke from behind them. “And, even though I was attacking you, I notice you didn’t jump on me, or even get all that angry.”

John blinked a few times. “Has that happened to you before?”

Duck shrugged. “It’s always a possibility, with the populations I tend to work with. I’ll ask you one more uncomfortable question, and then I’ll let you go.” He leaned back in his chair, body language open and unthreatening. “If you go home, do you think you’ll try to kill yourself again?”

John’s response was immediate and drawn from his very depths. “No. Never again. I  couldn’t.”

Duck looked into his eyes a moment longer, then he nodded and stood, indicating the door. “That’s a very good answer, John. That’s the right answer.”

~~oOo~~

John walked toward his room, mind spinning even more than it usually did after a session with Duck. His thoughts careened between reexamining his interactions with Major Sholto and his utter lack of awareness about James’ feelings, and apprehensive imaginings of going home and not being able to cope. He hardly watched where he was going, and nearly walked straight into the head-injured woman who he usually saw placidly enduring endless prattle from that bloke in the yellow dressing gown.

As he skidded to a stop, he uttered a yelp of surprise and chagrin at almost crashing into her. John shook his head to clear the cobwebs, and stammered an apology, asking if she was alright.

The woman regarded him calmly, untroubled by his antics and observing his discombobulation with bovine serenity. “When my head gets full, I put the outside around it,” she declared in a round contralto at odds with her slight frame. “The bees can get out with all that space, and they like the flowers.” With that, she turned and ambled up the hallway. John noticed she was only wearing one slipper and her other foot was bare, but the day was warm and she didn’t seem bothered by it. He watched her go with bemusement for another moment before taking her odd advice and pushing out the door to the garden.   

The sweet fragrances and fresh air raised his spirits immediately. He headed for his favorite bench under the beech tree, hoping fervently that yellow-dressing-gown wasn’t camped out. John personally thought the fellow liked it under there because the colors set off his ridiculous bathrobe to good effect, rather than because the peace and solitude allowed for productive introspection.

Luck was on his side, and he sank gratefully onto the bench with a sigh. He usually had something on his mind after a morning in Duck’s company, and today he had two big topics to chew on. His thoughts shied away from tackling the conversation they had had about James, and his dogged insistence that he was not gay. Something so fundamental to his understanding of himself seemed like too huge a thing to just figure out with a morning’s hard thinking. _Come back to it,_ he thought. _Not like it won’t be percolating in the back of your mind from now on, anyway._

Which left the revelation that Duck felt he might be ready to go home. Back to being a father to Rosie, splitting the chores with Amina, and the daily life that seemed so removed from the sheltered existence he was leading this week. Was he ready? Sure, he wasn’t about to end himself anymore - the very thought made him ill with guilt and regret. But did that mean he was ready to just drop back into his life? Head back to cases with Sherlock? Shifts at the surgery? The concept seemed unreal at the moment.

Alongside the insubstantial possibility of actually leaving the facility, How would people treat him - would they walk on eggshells and be afraid to talk with him about anything unpleasant? Would they see him differently? Not trust him anymore? _Probably at first, but once I settle in, and get back to keeping it together... maybe they’ll forget?_

The critical little voice in his head that had caused so much trouble scoffed at such an optimistic hope, but John told that part of him to sod off. He and Duck had talked about checking his assumptions, that the little voice in his head had been trained by his depression and inertia to feed him unsubstantiated judgment about his actions. _Sherlock would be so upset that I hadn’t checked my facts._ John snorted at the face he imagined his friend making at the thought.

 _So, check my assumption. People will treat me differently. Likely that’s true, though that may not be a terrible thing. Look at how Sherlock is treating me differently..._ John absently wrapped arms around himself as this thought coalesced, mimicking their newfound hugging habit.

 _And if everyone else treats me like I’m made of glass, I’ll just have to plug along and be solid until they get it that I’m not going to freak out again._ His heart thumped with a little dread, but he breathed deep and firmed his upper lip, dropping a tight nod to punctuate the thought with determination. _And I don’t expect Duck will cut me loose with no backup at all, anyway. He said he sees other clients on an outpatient basis..._

Course of action chosen, he stood and headed for his room, and perhaps some lunch.

When he arrived at his doorway, he heard Rosie crowing and babbling from inside, interspersed with baritone comments. He grinned widely, and stepped in to see Sherlock and Rosie arranged on the floor with a post on a rocking stand, stacked with graduated, brightly colored rings. Rosie had managed to put two rings on the post, and judging by the bottom lip clutched between white teeth, Sherlock was emphatically restraining his instinct to organize the rings by color or size or some other criteria known only to him.

John paused, a warm feeling of fond happiness suffusing him and pushing back the swirling anxiousness of the morning. “Hiya,” he offered.

Sherlock looked up, and with one of his Mona Lisa smiles, climbed to his feet. His laser-like gaze was already sweeping John from head to toe, and he stepped forward to enclose John in a comfortable embrace without a word.

For John, this was a little different than the hugs that had come before. John was not overtly in need of comforting at the moment, when his feelings upon seeing his daughter and Sherlock had been warm affection.

Sherlock had doffed his coat and laid it over a chair, so John’s hands around his back rested on the smooth cotton of his dress shirt. Body heat bled through almost immediately, and John felt strong muscles adjusting to their position under his palms. Unaccountably he imagined flexing his fingers, squeezing into the muscles and feeling their tensile response. He shook the thought away, gave a full-armed squeeze and stepped back. His chest felt abruptly cool.

“Have you been here long?” John stepped over to the bed and slipped off his trainers, exchanging them for the comfortable slippers placed ready on the floor.

“Not too long. I texted that we’d be coming, but I assume you didn’t get it. You’ve been for a walk in the garden before coming here.” Sherlock asserted. “Your hair has a bit of a leaf in it, and it smells like the lilies that are blooming around the doorway nearest to this room.”

John grinned. “Got it in one. And yeah, I don’t take my phone with me to sessions. Don’t really have pockets.” And he knew if Sherlock came across a case, he would send a text, and John would be powerless to resist the siren call of checking it. Not the most conducive to honest self-examination if he’s distracted by how dull Lestrade is being, or whether a dog-walker could have murdered someone to protect their rare-breed charge. He huffed a breathy chuckle at the thought and scruffed his fingers through his hair to dislodge the leaf Sherlock had mentioned.

“No, you missed it. Let me,” his friend said.  His big hands spidered across John’s scalp, making the short hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He shivered as Sherlock stepped back, a bit of green something pinched in his fingers. He dropped it in the bin.

Again John was pinned with Sherlock’s top-to-toe scrutiny, and aristocratic brows crinkled in concern. “Everything alright, then?”

John looked down at his feet. “Yeah, mostly, I guess.” He gazed out the window a moment, gathering his thoughts. “Duck suggested that I might go home soon.” His hands found each other in his lap, and twisted together tightly. “I’m not so sure.”

Sherlock had initially broken into a pleased grin, which faded as John went on. “I’m sure we’d all be glad to have you home,” he suggested tentatively.

“That’s just it, you see?” John blurted. “Everyone knows what I did, and they’ll all be ever so _careful_ ,” he spat the word with sarcastic derision, “so I don’t go round the bend at the drop of a hat. I don’t want them to treat me differently. I’m still me. I had a rough patch, yeah, but god willing, I’m past it.” He blew out an aggravated breath and scrubbed at his hair again, making it stick up in unruly spikes.

Sherlock sat down on the bed beside him and looked out the window, brow furrowed in thought. After a moment, he suggested, “If you had had a heart attack and been in hospital, you would expect those around to treat you differently when you were first home, right?”

John pursed his lips in irritation. “Well, yes. I’d need more rest and have to be careful about exercising and what I eat so as to work back to health.”

“Well, there you have it.” Sherlock pronounced, waving the matter off as inconsequential. “This will be the same. People will take care with you for a while, as you work back to health, as you say. After a bit, everything will go back to normal.” He took John’s hand and squeezed with his big paw. “As much as that is possible for you and I,” he said with a half-smirk.  

John snickered, mollified by his friend’s reasonable response. “Yeah.”

They spent a pleasant afternoon playing with Rosie and talking over a few cases that Sherlock had in his email, debating whether they were a 4 or a 7 and whether they merited Sherlock’s attention at all. The conversation was spirited at times, and John enjoyed it very much.

As the afternoon began to fade to twilight, Sherlock packed up Rosie’s things to take her home. “I’ll let Amina know you’re likely to be home in a few days,” he ventured.

John nodded. “Yeah, alright, that’d be great,” he said, leaning in to plant a kiss on Rosie’s pink cheek where she drowsed on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

Sherlock nodded, and looked like he wanted to say something; their faces were so close John could see the variations in color in his friend’s irises easily, even in the fading afternoon light. After a moment, the man blinked and pulled back, a little faint color on his cheeks. “I’ll text,” he said shortly, and was gone.

John stood motionless for a moment, and then bemusedly went to dig his phone out of the drawer where he’d stashed it that morning. If Sherlock was going to text, he wanted to be prepared.

~~oOo~~

In the small hours of the night, John was awakened by intense dreams. But for the first time in a very, very long time, the dreams were not full of screams and explosions and terror. Kinesthetic impressions of muscled flesh beneath his hands, soft skin under his fingertips and against his lips, sweat and musk and electric heat, had him waking to gasped breaths and a throbbing erection. He lay in bed, surprised at this turn of events. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had an erotic dream, let alone a wank. He chalked it up to his improved mental state, and took himself in hand. No sense wasting it, after all.


	12. And Reason To Open Your Heart

The next day’s run was the best yet; five laps and he was still full of energy at the end, grinning, flushed and breathing hard. No doubt his legs would protest later in the day, but at the moment he felt fantastic.

“What did I say, eh?” Duck said, swatting him on the bicep. “Seven-and-a-half klicks is a natural for you. At a good clip, too!” He scrubbed a hand through his greying hair, chuckling. “I’m all in a sweat!”

John returned the swat smugly. For once, Duck looked like he had exercised - his hair stuck up in damp, wavy fuzz where his fingers had combed it up, and a healthy color adorned his cheeks. John knew he himself looked pretty bedraggled in comparison, but he still felt a glow of accomplishment as they entered Duck’s office and pulled their now-habitual big glasses of water.

“How’re you feeling, then?” Duck asked as they headed over to stretch. “We had some serious talk yesterday.”

John rolled his eyes and shrugged ruefully. “Yeah,” he said neutrally. “But yeah, you were right to make me think on it. I think - if you really feel I should, that it’s for the best - that I could go home,” he bent down, letting his weight draw his fingers toward the floor as Duck had instructed all week, “but I’d hope that we could keep up our talks for a little bit - hey, my fingers touched the floor!” He continued from his inverted position, sounding somewhat strangled, swinging his hands at the carpet. “Just for a second, and the barest tip of my middle fingers, but it did!” He heaved back to standing, eyes shining.

“Brilliant!” Duck affirmed, “Quite the day you’re having, mate! Well, then, let’s sit and talk a bit.” He led the way to their usual seats by the window. “I wouldn’t just put you out on the street, you know,” he said seriously. “I’m glad to hear you’d want to continue with our sessions. I’m thinking we’d meet daily for the first week or two at least, and decide what to do from there afterward. Would you have any trouble getting here from your place in the mornings?”

John leaned back into the sofa cushions, riding a cloud of happy endorphins. “Not a problem. I have a car, and my flat is not too far from here, I think.”

“Then we’ll release you tomorrow morning after our session. Be sure you use the sauna before you go - it’s worth the price of admission, if you ask me.” 

John chuckled and smiled, and they moved on to other topics. Eventually, John aired his concerns that he’d backslide once he was back in his usual surroundings, and worse, that he wouldn’t notice if he did. 

Duck assured him that was why they’d keep up with their meetings, frequently at first, and when John felt more confident, stepping it back to less often. “People do it at all sorts of different paces, based on their situations. We’ll keep a close eye on that.”

They didn’t mention the other topic that had been raised the previous day, but John was aware of the question, percolating in the back of his mind. For now, it could stay back there. 

~~oOo~~

When he went back to his room, no one was there. He tried not to feel disappointed, but had hoped that he might come across another heartwarming scene like yesterday’s. Seeing reserved, impassive Sherlock so engaged with Rosie was surprisingly satisfying, and he cherished those moments.

Sighing philosophically, he dug into the drawer where he kept his mobile, wondering if Sherlock had a case today. Indeed, there was a text, but not a case. 

**Amina has Rosie today for Molly play date. Will come to you later. SH**

John pursed his lips, considering what to do next. His muscles were starting to feel his exertions of the morning now that he had cooled down. Duck’s suggestion of the sauna had stuck in his head, though, and why the hell not? Mycroft or someone was paying quite the pile for him to be here, he should take advantage of it. He grabbed a couple of towels and headed for the weight room and lockers. He’d have a nice sweat bath, and then a long shower before lunch, and see Sherlock later. Just the ticket.

The weight room and locker area were deserted when John got there, and he briskly stripped off and rubbed himself down with a towel to remove the worst of his workout sweat while the sauna heated. He chose a modest 72 degrees C, not wanting to cook too much, but knowing he had a higher tolerance for heat than some after his time in Afghanistan. He grabbed two bottles of water from the fridge near the door (another perk of this posh facility) and stepped into the small, dim room, towels clutched in a bundle over his nudity. 

The air was very dry, and redolent with the odor of the cedar benches and paneling. It was deserted. _Oh, yes, this is very nice indeed._ John laid a towel on the bench near the trough of hot stones and sprinkled a few dippers of water from a bucket on the floor over them. Steam billowed up in a hissing cloud and John felt an itchy, tickling sensation as all the pores in his skin - on his back, his cheeks, his arms, even on his kneecaps, for god’s sake! - opened all at once. He shivered with the pleasure of it and sat down on his towel, arranging another smallish towel over himself to offer modesty in case someone came in. 

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, focusing on the physical sensations of this experience. His muscles were relaxing, and he sagged back against the wall behind him. _Better have a drink, Watson, don’t want to dehydrate._ The water felt wonderful sliding down his throat. His skin tingled and was swiftly coated with a skim of sweat, which occasionally gathered and slid down his contours in sensual rivulets. 

For a while he merely basked, occasionally renewing the steam with splashes of water from the bucket, sipping from his bottled water, breathing deeply of the heated, steamy air. The calm quiet and all-encompassing physical sensations of the sauna brought to mind last night’s dreams and their results, and while the heat dampened much of anything, he was still aware of his groin feeling full. He replayed the dream in his mind, enjoying having a response from his libido after so long without, but was soon diverted as it brought to mind the conversation he’d had with Duck about James, and John, and men...

John’s brow furrowed and he frowned, jerkily taking a deep drink of his water. He’d had many lovers in his time, enough that he’d had a reputation in the army as a bit of a Casanova. He absolutely loved the female body, with its soft curves and fragrant, secret places yielding slick pleasure upon pleasure. Just thinking of past lovers made his prick give a twitch. He wouldn’t say he had a type; tall or short, slim or curvy, blonde or brunette or ginger, skin like cream or café au lait or ebony, all had caught his eye at one time or another. His lovers had not complained of him; they’d been complimentary about his skills even though attempts at lasting relationships had failed. The realm of the carnal had been one place where he felt he knew himself well, and was rightfully proud of his prowess.

 _But what if Duck is right? That I’d never let myself think beyond women because Da was such a fucking monster about Harry?_   He had to acknowledge it was possible. He thought back to those times with James that had sparked this whole discussion. Had he been mistaking arousal for an unusual kind of camaraderie? He pictured James - not the cynical, damaged man he had become, who John had seen at his wedding; but the robust, leonine soldier with the dust of battle still in his hair as he held John through his shuddering reactions to the horrors they had seen.

He could acknowledge now, with the luxury of time and distance, that James had likely fancied him. Been in love with him? John frowned and considered it. A lot of straight men might get defensive if another bloke fancied them; for sure there had been all sorts of macho bullshit thrown around in the barracks about it. Those men who overcame the taboo to find comfort in each other, be it just physical or something more, definitely had caught shit for it. He’d assigned punishment runs and the worst of cleanup duties to more than one homophobic arsehole in his unit for being obnoxious to fellow soldiers.

But he, himself? That James might have loved him only made him feel a sort of wistful regret for the pain he must have caused his friend. He compared his feelings for James with those for women he’d fancied, to how he’d felt about Mary at the beginning, even. Something missing there, with James. Yes, he cared strongly about the man, felt grateful to him for his care, honored his sacrifices and appreciated his wisdom. But his feelings lacked the element of desire, the urge to claim and possess, that his love affairs had been flavored with. While he did his best not to be a dick about it, he was somewhat possessive of his lovers; and those crushes he’d had that hadn’t come to anything still were colored through that lens of _wanting_. 

He tried to think if he had ever been aware of that quality of feeling for any man. If it had happened, it would have been swiftly buried, and vehemently ignored afterward - that was the whole point of this exercise, after all. John frowned and dipped up a little more steam. There was something... a niggling idea, elusive and hard to grasp as a fish; he racked his brain to catch it.

With a rush of frigid air, the door to the sauna swung wide. Sherlock burst in, already speaking at a breakneck pace and brandishing his phone. “Ah, at last, John. I had a devil of a time finding you hiding in here. This is fascinating, and I need to you look at it-” he finally looked up from his mobile to see John, towel clutched in his lap, glaring indignantly at him. “John!” he exclaimed, blinking rapidly but seemingly unable to look away. “You erm, you're -”

“Bloody hell, Sherlock - you’re letting all the heat out!” John’s skin was pebbled with goosebumps and he mourned the loss of his tranquil relaxation. 

“I’ll...” Sherlock gestured to the door vaguely, eyes still glued to John’s form for another solid minute until he pulled them away with a shake of his head. “Out there.” And he vanished through the door as abruptly as he had entered.

John slumped back against the wall for a moment, grumbling. Then he stood and wiped his face roughly with his towel before wrapping it around his waist and stepping to the door, reining in the urge to give his friend a thorough bollocking for his rude entrance. All the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck were standing up, and his fingers and toes buzzed with vitality; he felt energized and ready for action. His body must still be revved up from his thoughts about his dream, as he had to readjust his towel to more adequately hide his half-hard prick, which had not subsided despite the blast of colder air. With a deep breath and plea to the heavens for patience, he went out to face whatever had Sherlock’s knickers in such a twist.

His friend was pacing the end of the locker room farthest from the sauna door, mobile no longer in view, hands steepled in front of his lips. John could see that Sherlock’s brief immersion into the steamy atmosphere of the sauna had fluffed his curls into wispy ringlets around his face and left him with flushed color staining his prominent cheekbones, all the way down until it disappeared beneath the collar of his deep blue button-down shirt. He threw a fleeting glance over to where John held the towel wrapped around his hips, and spun away, and then back to stare for a moment, then drew a breath and spun to face away again. “I’m sorry,” he intoned to the wall, but since there was no one else there, John assumed he was being addressed. “I didn’t mean to intrude on your _alone time_.” His voice sounded a little strangled, or maybe that was because it was bouncing off the wall first?

“No problem, Sherlock,” John said magnanimously, turning his back and unslinging his towel to scrub over his chest with it. “It was about time I got out anyway, and they say a cold shock is good for the system after a sauna. Saved me having to take a cold shower, though I should still rinse off. I’m pretty sweaty.” He looked to his exercise clothes still draped over the bench, and bent down to grab the track pants, feeling the cool air of the room waft across his bum with the movement. A squeaking, choked sound from behind him had him whipping around in alarm, senses on high alert - to see Sherlock’s coat swirling as he swung back to face the wall again. 

John swallowed his irritation as he shuffled into the track pants and raised the now less-than-pristine towel to mop his face and blot the sweat from his hair. “What has gotten into you, Sherlock?” he asked, mystified by his friend’s odd behavior. “Is everything all right? Is there a case?” 

“Yes!” Sherlock said, unexpectedly loud in the empty room. “A case! Here! On my phone.” He rummaged in a capacious pocket and pulled out his mobile again. “Look at this!” He strode across the room to hold the screen up to John’s face, much too close so that all he could see was a blur of brown and pink and red. 

John batted at Sherlock’s arm to get the phone away from his face, then caught him by the wrist and spun around, trapping the arm under his bicep against his rib cage and pinning his friend behind his back unless Sherlock wanted to sprain himself escaping. He positioned the phone, still held in Sherlock’s hand, at a more comfortable distance so he could look at the photo the phone displayed. “Just hold it still for a minute, Christ!” 

He squinted at the picture: a man’s face, swarthy and unshaven, smeared with the shocking crimson of serious head trauma that caved in the frontal bone over the right eye with a blunt, rounded, instrument about the same diameter as a pound coin. Hammer, possibly? He frowned, chewed his lip for a moment as he considered. 

There was a tickling on the back of his neck, and it took him a moment to realize it was Sherlock’s panting breaths, fast and shallow. His friend was rigid with tension behind him and striving to hide it. John hastily released him and busied himself grabbing his manky Tshirt and slipping it over his head. “What am I looking at there?” he asked through the thin fabric. 

Sherlock cleared his throat and headed back to his pacing path at the end of the room. He launched into his description without meeting John’s eyes. “Victim with blunt trauma to the front of the head, died without regaining consciousness,” he recited. “Wound looks like the rounded end of a ball-peen hammer, but no weapon found nearby, and CCTV footage from multiple cameras on the scene show the victim merely pitching backward onto the ground and no one coming near until the body was discovered.” 

John stepped into his scuffs and started to walk back toward his room, snagging a bottle of water on his way out. He cracked it and handed it to Sherlock, putting his other hand on a wool-swathed arm to halt his friend’s rush for the door. “Here, drink this - you’re a little flushed, and no wonder, in the sauna in your coat like that.” A shiver ran through Sherlock, and he took the bottle gingerly, sipping with clear reluctance. He handed it back with a nod, eyes dark and hooded despite the fluorescent lights. “Are you alright, really, Sherlock? You’re not coming down with something are you?” John squeezed the arm he had been grasping, then absently slid his hand down and off as he continued on toward his room while his friend waved away any notion he might be ill with impatient strides and scoffed denials. 

As they made their way, Sherlock seemed to collect himself and was soon running at the mouth in that way he had when he was bouncing ideas off John about a case. The victim had been strolling along a section of the Thames that had been cleaned up as a park, with enameled metal benches placed at intervals along neat cobblestone paths lined with sculptural shrubberies. The park sported a few CCTV cameras, and the victim had been seen strolling along, apparently unconcerned, in the early evening as skies grew dark. He then abruptly pitched back over a bench onto the lawn, presumably having received the head wound that had killed him. He was discovered a few hours later by a passing couple who sat on the bench to make out, then noticed the sprawled figure and called the authorities.

“Bet that killed the mood,” John snorted, gathering up some clean pajamas on his way to the shower. “Back in a few.” The bathroom door cut Sherlock off mid-sentence and John hurried to get himself cleaned up and re-dressed so as not to miss too much of the excitement. When he emerged five minutes later, scrubbed and pink, Sherlock had just crowed over an email he was reading from the phone in his hand. 

“Aha! We have an ID of the victim. Luca Romano, formerly of New York.” He groaned. “Dear god, he is the most stereotypical mob enforcer I’ve seen outside of those ridiculous films you were always watching. He might as well have been cracking his knuckles while wearing a bad suit and telling people he’s ‘goddan offuh yooo caahnt refyoose!’” 

John snickered at Sherlock’s terrible imitation; it was more Schwarzenegger than Brando. While his friend was a consummate actor in many situations, accents were his weak point and John took considerable satisfaction in knowing there was something his friend did not excel at effortlessly. As painful as Sherlock’s botched reveal had been after he had returned from the dead, looking back John occasionally found that terrible French accent and little pencil-line moustache popping into his mind like a Monty Python sketch he didn’t entirely remember. Even now, the image made him chuckle again. 

Sherlock had not stopped his monologue disparaging their victim. “Just look at him, the man is built like a side of beef, all craggy eyebrows and tree-trunk legs and grapefruit biceps. It’s a wonder he can turn his head at all, his neck is so thick.” He was watching John out of the corner of his eye now, a sly curve to the line of his lips. John felt his composure slipping, his restrained chuckles threatening to break out into full on laughter. “No signs of keen intelligence, though. He probably has a nickname like ‘Brick’ or ‘Concrete Romano’ or ‘Bag of Hammers Luca’ and thinks it’s a compliment.” 

John lost it then, hunching over to put hands on knees with the force of his spate of high-pitched giggles. Sherlock was just rolling along now because he knew it would egg John on, grinning widely. “Maybe he’s got a weaselly little friend named Joey Fingers, or Georgie the Wasp, who kept Bag of Hammers from getting whacked straight out of the gate because he’s the brains of the operation.”

John held out a hand to stop Sherlock so he could catch his breath. Jesus, was he hysterical? Maybe it had just been such a rare thing to laugh lately. “Christ, stop! ... Hammers... get whacked... maybe in the head! Sherlo... whooo!” His hand fetched up against Sherlock’s chest and he patted it as he wheezed and got himself mostly under control. “Do you have a picture of him?” he asked, rather breathlessly, then cleared his throat and continued in a more normal tone. “Not dead, I mean?

Sherlock raised a sardonic eyebrow and showed John his phone. The face he had previously seen misshapen and cratered looked back at him grimly from a mug shot apparently taken in an American precinct in New Jersey. Dark olive skin and thick five o’clock shadow featured, with heavy black brows, small fierce eyes, and deep jowls that made the victim look like a none-too-bright-but-likely-dangerous dog... or feral pig, maybe. “Quite the Goliath, that one. I’d not like to bump into him in a dark alley, right enough.”

Sherlock’s elfin grin slid off his face as his jaw loosened with the familiar “ah-HA!” expression. His eyes widened and, though unfocused, flicked back and forth at unseen things. “Goliath, yes!” His big hands came up and clutched at John’s where it still laid against a lean chest, then John was unexpectedly caught up in an enthusiastic hug, all wiry arms and flapping coat and muscled front against John’s cheek. He was enveloped by warm air scented of Sherlock, and gasped in a surprised breath of it. “John, that’s it!” his friend was saying. “That’s how he was killed!” John felt a pressure on the top of his head briefly, though Sherlock had no hands to be patting him with, then the madman was spinning away in one of his paroxysms of deductive ecstasy. 

“What?” John managed.

“Goliath, John. Killed with a stone hurled from a sling! The pathways there are rough cobblestone, and some of them always come loose.” Sherlock was texting rapidly now. “I’ll bet you a fiver that the murder weapon was a rounded stone, shot with a slingshot of some sort. It’s probably lying there on the ground where he fell, and forensics just thought it was part of the landscape.” He hit ‘send’ with gusto on the last text, and looked up. “That was very good, John. What on Earth made you think of Goliath?” 

John paused. What had made him think of it? “Huh. Just something my Mum used to say about the bullies in the neighborhood. She was raised religious.” 

“Well done, your Mum, then,” Sherlock smiled again, the one that made deep crows’ feet crinkle up by his eyes. John felt heat creep abruptly up the back of his neck and across his cheeks. He stared down at his feet to hide it. Bloody hell, he hadn’t blushed since his teens, as best he could remember. Why now?

Sherlock looked around the room and then snugged his scarf up around his neck. “I’m afraid I’ll have to go, though. I’ll need to look at the scene and see if I can find where the killer stood to shoot - I might learn more about how tall they are, or maybe they dropped something that would identify them.” He looked at John apologetically. “I’d wait until tomorrow when you could come along, but there’s rain in the forecast tonight.” 

John shook his head. “No, of course you should go, I’ll be fine - might try out a few more of the amenities before I leave, or something. Just have Lestrade fit you for a helmet, though - don’t want any slingshot stones caving in your head.” He raised a hand to cover the frontal bone where the victim had been struck, and in doing so, stroked his fingers briefly through the dark brown curls. Sherlock tossed his head like a spooked horse, sucking in a startled breath then blinking at John, who stood a moment with his hand still raised, then dropped it and again studied his shuffling feet. “Sorry. But do be careful - you need your skull intact, right?”

Sherlock regarded him for another silent minute, blinking rapidly, then seemed to snap out of it and regain his momentum. “Right, then. I’ll just be getting on. I’ll text!” he called as he strode out the door. 

John sat down on the bed in the ringing silence left by Sherlock’s departure, vigor and energy draining out of him all of a sudden. His time in the sauna had left his muscles filled with lassitude, so he lay back on the bed with his hands cupping the back of his head on the pillow.

He drowsed through an hour or two, while the early afternoon light aged into golden early evening, then jerked awake when his mobile buzzed under his thigh where he had stashed it. He snatched it up to see a text from Sherlock, and more coming in. 

**Found disturbed bark on two trees in the park, indicating someone near tree for some time. SH**

A photo of a nondescript tree came through, bright with the phone’s flash, showing a brownish scrape and Sherlock’s pale hand, pointing. 

**One mark at least two weeks old, probably someone having it off behind cover. Two someones, actually. Note long dark hair caught in bark, plus bleached strands in same spot. SH**

John squinted, and yes, could see the yellowish line, crossed with brown, that might have been the hairs Sherlock was referring to. He shrugged; the hairs and scrape didn’t immediately strike him as relevant, but maybe Sherlock thought something different?

A few minutes went by while John waited impatiently for further information. 

**Second tree about a quarter of the way round the park from first tree. Person stood for a long time; deep scuffing and trodden grass at the base of the tree. SH**

Another picture: base of a tree with smooth, silvery bark and patch of flattened grass and disturbed soil. No clear footprints, though a bit of Sherlock’s ridiculously posh brown oxford formed an edge of the shot. 

**Damaged bark on tree higher up, my shoulder for height reference. Looks like a pair of pointed gouges. Any ideas what could have caused it? SH**

A photo came through; the silver bark of the tree marred by two narrow, deep grooves where the pale splinters of wood showed through, framed by Sherlock’s wool-coated shoulder and open collar. The stark light of the flash made the wood shine as brightly as the vee of Sherlock’s white skin at his throat, casting the lines of tendons and muscle and clean-shaven jaw into sharp relief. John blinked at it for a moment, then concentrated on the gashes in the bark. What could have made a cut like that? 

_**I don’t know, John sent back. Anything else of interest there?** _

**Found the stone used as projectile. It was one pried up from the path, about 3.5 cm in diameter. Had rolled into the grass near the body. Had traces of hair and blood on it, so no question. SH**

John pursed his lips and frowned. A stone a little smaller than a ping-pong ball, shot at a force to cave in a man’s forehead bone, would need a pretty strong slingshot. He squinted at the photo again, wondering about the damaged bark, but his eye caught at the expanse of almost translucent skin highlighted by the merciless flash. Sherlock had a scattering of moles on his neck, John noted, that caught the eye in the harsh light. Had he never noticed them before? How odd.

He shook his head bemusedly. _Back to business, Watson._ As a boy, he had played with a slingshot, made from rubber bands and a forked stick he’d found somewhere, after reading about one in an issue of Boy’s Life or some such rubbish an elderly aunt had given him. His interest had lasted about a week, as it became clear that shooting accurately with the thing was almost impossible. Not only couldn’t he hit the cans he’d lined up on an old concrete barrier in a disused lot near his family’s flat, he couldn’t even hit the barrier. The pebbles he shot went off to god knows where. 

Now, as an adult with firearms training, John realized his wrist would have been too weak to keep his aim steady when the little pouch he’d tied in was released. Even the most carefully lined-up shot would have wobbled as the muscles straining against the pulled rubber pushed forward when that tension was released, driving the pebble into the ground or off to either side. He frowned again, and brought up his browser. Some people hunted with slingshots, he knew, so how did they compensate? 

Sifting through the image results and curling a derisive lip at the conspiracy-survivalist flavor of many of the posts, John saw that modern slingshots addressed the problem of weak wrists with braces that laid across the forearm and kept the slingshot rigid, and that some tips suggested further bracing the entire arm or the slingshot with a stake set in the ground. _Or a couple of spikes wedged against a tree?_ John felt his lips pull into a half-smile, and sent Sherlock a link of a wrist-mounted slingshot, with triple-strength elastic tubing and high-tech carbon-fiber body, complete with arm brace and optional screw-down tripod. 

**_Could have braced the slingshot against the tree?_ **

He waited for Sherlock’s response, and it was not long in coming.

**I think you’ve got it. Well done. Based on height of bracing to be at or near eye level, shot fired by person approx 170 cm tall. SH**

**I’ll relay this to Lestrade & team; they will need to check CCTV for persons of that height entering or leaving the tree area. SH**

John grinned widely as the recognition from his friend settled warmly in his chest. He scrolled back to reread the exchange, pleased with his contribution, and the picture again caught his eye. He gazed at it, tracing the lines and contours of Sherlock’s long, lean neck with his eyes, observing the marks of pigment like drops of paint on marble. There was one that he kept coming back to; a little mark nestled in the shadow formed by a lean jaw and the prominent Adam’s apple. He stroked a fingertip across the picture. The touch expanded the photo to full screen and John gasped faintly when a sudden shiver traveled up the back of his neck, accompanied by a pulse of heat in his groin that shocked him with its strength. His mouth filled with saliva and he swallowed convulsively, licking his lips. They tingled, and he wondered how they would feel pressed against the little dark spot that had so captured his attention. 

The bright triangle of flesh filled his vision as he squirmed uncomfortably on his bed. _This... this is that wanting. This is what was missing with James, with any other man I can remember._ John dropped his phone to the mattress and covered his eyes with flat palms. _Oh, god. It's Sherlock._

A cascade of images presented themselves behind his eyes. Sherlock clad in nothing but a sheet at Buckingham Palace featured prominently, of course. Sherlock, quizzically gazing up at Irene Adler’s nudity in her house; Sherlock bemused by a freshly showered Irene in their flat, flirting so determinedly at him - and John feeling compelled each time to recapture his attention, break that fascination his friend had shown. John remembered his chagrin combined with visceral relief when Sherlock revealed his dalliance with Janine had been a ruse. Even then John had chided himself for his jealousy. A series of remembrances of Sherlock in various states of dress scrolled through his head - posh button-down shirts rolled up at the sleeves, trousers clinging to a surprisingly rounded posterior, petulant sulks on the sofa in silky dressing gown and threadbare pajamas, Sherlock’s eyes meeting John’s in the mirror as he straightened his tie before the disastrous Moriarty trial, settling his own suit jacket on lean shoulders. And the curls. Scruffy and unwashed, or frizzy and crumpled with sleep, or elegantly tamed with product, John had always clamped down on a desire to sink his fingers into the silky mass to tug on them. _That’s not a ‘just friends’ urge, is it, Watson?_  Images from his dream the night before popped into his mind. Flat, muscular chest, strong arms, lean, hard body. A male body. Sherlock’s body. His groin throbbed insistently and he craned his head up from the pillow to look at it.

He had an erection. From thinking about Sherlock. 

_Oh, my god._

Abruptly, John couldn’t stay still, stuck in that room that felt too small to contain this new understanding. He rolled off the bed, swapping his pajama bottoms for track pants from the drawer and jamming his feet into his trainers as if the building were on fire. He was out the door in moments, headed for the path that he had run so easily that morning, desperate to put distance between himself and the realization that he had desired his best friend in a way he never let himself desire any man, possibly since the first night they met. _I killed a man to save him, that first night. It’s been him, always him, since that first night._

He hit the path in the gathering evening, hearing the crunch of his trainers against the gravel, his mind whirling with revelation and a dawning anguish. The implications of this knowledge were too much to grasp all at once; he willed his legs to go faster, hoping to outrun his thoughts.

Back in his room, his phone buzzed where it lay on the rumpled coverlet. A block of texts, complete with photos, scrolled upward across the screen, ending in a demand for response, which was not forthcoming.

**John. SH**  
**John? SH**  
**Are you there? SH**  
**John, answer please. SH**  
**John! SH**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the folks who have been reading along, and who have gently, kindly let me know you're still out there, I can't thank you enough. I very much appreciate how understanding readers are of RL pressures and how they can derail the best intentions of writers. I think about this story every day, and am writing whenever I get a chance; and by all the gods, I promise I will finish this story! <3, Plants


	13. Oh My Friend

John returned from his run an hour and a half later feeling calmer, but not much more enlightened than when he left. His two slow laps of the garden in what passed for darkness on an early London evening had done much to drive off the oncoming panic his emotional realization had caused, but no miraculous clarifying epiphanies struck out of the blue. _Gonna have to just figure this one out yourself, Watson._

As he approached his door, he became aware of some sort of commotion near his room. There were voices raised, and a collection of patients and a few staff gathered in the hallway, gawking.

John frowned and quickened his pace, breaking into a jog as a familiar bass bellow cut through the murmuring of the onlookers. “You are supposed to be taking care of John, and you have LOST him! How can you lose an entire person? Where is he? Are you really so stupid as to be looking under the bed? It’s wide open, we’d be able to see if anyone was down there! And I’ve looked in the closets - yes, and the washroom!”

A garbled mess of voices protesting these accusations competed with the shouted insults. The group of spectators stepped more tightly up against the doorway to watch the show, and didn’t turn at the squeak of John’s trainers on the tiles. He tapped one on the shoulder, a tall, thin bloke who was craning his head to see over the crowd and into the room. “Can I get through, please?” John asked mildly, indicating the doorway. “I think they’re wondering where I am.”

The tall bloke snorted, and tapped the person in front of him, who turned and goggled for a moment before turning to tap the next. In short order, the lollygaggers had squeezed aside to make a sort of aisle for John to get to his door. He pushed through them to see a wild-eyed, disheveled Sherlock Holmes berating two unlucky nurses as they rummaged through John’s drawers, opened his closet, pulled back the shower curtain, and generally messed with all his things. John’s jaw tightened at this breach of his privacy, but he was silently glad no one had thought to poke through his bed-covers yet; his contraband phone was barely concealed by a fold in the blanket.

“What the HELL is going on here?” he yelled in his best ‘stop the squaddies in their tracks for a well-deserved bollocking’ voice. “Sherlock, what are you shouting about? Why is everyone going through my things? Nurse Jones, Nurse Savage, those are my drawers, I’ll thank you to put my pants back in them.” He stood with arms crossed on his chest, tightly-leashed anger clear on his face as those named looked abashed and traded wide-eyed looks.

Nurse Savage stepped forward. “Dr Watson, I apologize. Your friend here,” and she indicated a flustered-looking Sherlock, with an irritated wave of her hand, “came to the nurses' station yelling about how you had disappeared, and we came to investigate. That’s when, er,” John could see her struggling to remain diplomatic in her description, “the shouting started. You arrived about five minutes later. Since you seem to be fine?” she scanned John up and down and raised an eyebrow in enquiry. John nodded, indicating he was, indeed, fine.

“Then I’ll take Jeremy here and be on about our work getting the other patients settled back down.” She snagged her compatriot by the elbow to get him moving, and shot the still-immobile Sherlock a wearily unflappable stare. “Sir, as you can see,” she addressed him, “Dr Watson is fine. Perhaps in future you can avoid making a scene until you’re certain it’s warranted, hmm?”

Sherlock blinked at her, tearing his eyes away from where they had been riveted to John’s face. “Hmm, what? Oh, yes, yes, right, of course.” He waved her vaguely away and she left the room, chivying the onlookers back to their rooms and duties.

John’s door swung shut and left a ringing silence in its wake. John and Sherlock regarded each other without speaking; Sherlock scanning his friend with his customary laser-like gaze, John doing his best to remain placid and blank in an effort to hide the churning thoughts and emotions that had driven him to run off his panic in the darkened garden.

Abruptly Sherlock lurched forward and wrapped John tightly in his long arms, breathing a sigh that sounded very like John’s name against the top of his head. He heaved deep breaths in and out, and John could feel the tension wound tight in the body that held him. The doctor and father in him couldn’t help but try to soothe, speaking in a crooning singsong. “Hey now, Sherlock, it’s all right. I’m all right.” His own arms had come up around his lanky friend, so he rubbed one hand up and down against Sherlock’s spine and returned the hug firmly until he felt the muscles under his hands lose some of their thrumming rigidity.

He loosed his grip and tried to step back, but was prevented by Sherlock’s unyielding arms. Instead, he tipped his head back so as to be able to see his friend’s face. “Are you alright? Did something happen?”

Sherlock silently shook his head, keeping his eyes averted. He pulled John back down against his shoulder and squeezed him for a moment, then said, “you didn’t answer my texts; even after I had sent several demands for response.” He sounded testy that John had ignored him. “It’s possible I may have jumped to the wrong… er, a concerning conclusion upon arriving here and finding you gone from your room.”

John snorted at that last. “You think?” he quipped. “I’m sure the staff will be happy to see the back of me in the morning, if this doesn’t delay my release.”

Sherlock gasped, as if this hadn’t occurred to him. “Is that likely?” he ventured, “I could speak to someone on your behalf, if you think it would…”

“Don’t worry about it. Duck is the one to release me, and I’m sure he’ll be fine. I went for a run, after all, just like the psychologist ordered.” Again John tried to step back from the hug that had gone on for a good five minutes now, and again was prevented by Sherlock not releasing him.

“A run? Why?” Sherlock asked, and peered down at his friend, causing unexpected double-chins to appear at his neck.

 _He’s too thin to have those, and yet, there they are,_ John thought wryly. His gaze drifted downward and snagged on the pigmented spot on Sherlock’s lean throat; the little mark that had begun the torrent of feelings and realizations that had sent him into the night. It was just as mesmerizing in person, and John felt a frisson of something dangerous at the sight. _Not now! He’ll see!_ John tensed in the circle of Sherlock’s arms, then pushed himself back, insisting with hands pressed against his friend’s chest to be let free. Sherlock surrendered with obvious reluctance.

John spun away, spine locked with the need to be unreadable to the most perceptive man he’d ever known. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Because I was thinking, and it wasn’t getting me anywhere, and I went for a run to see if it would shake something loose, like Duck said it might.”

“And did it?” Sherlock sounded tentative as he asked the question.

“Not really,” John admitted, “but it’s not like it’s a magic spell or anything, just that sometimes it happens that way. I guess I’ll just have to chip away at this one.” John went over to the huge window with its curtain still open, despite the late hour, and peered into the night.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Sherlock asked after a moment.

John shook his head. “Not with you,” he said absently, “I can talk with Duck about it tomorrow.” John’s gaze snapped to movement in the bright reflection of the room in the window, as clear as a mirror against the darkness outside. He saw the hand barely raised, the hopeful openness blooming on plush lips and tilted eyes, the short step taken toward him. And he saw his own closed, hunched posture; saw the reaction his words produced (puzzlement, disappointment, wistfulness?) pass over his friend’s face before it too, closed off and resumed its impassive mien. His stomach roiled uncomfortably. _Can’t let him figure it out. Can’t let him know how I feel until I know what to do about it - how to make it go away. I’ll lose him otherwise, drive him off with messy, unwelcome feelings and inappropriate urges. I can’t lose him! Not after all we’ve been through._

“John?” At the sound of this name, John shook himself out of the increasingly panicked reverie he had fallen into. Sherlock had stepped close, and was regarding him in the mirrored window; their gazes met in the glass. A stray curl had fallen across his friend’s high forehead. John pictured himself stretching out a hand to brush it back into place and, with a shiver, took a step away from temptation.

“Hmm?” he said, trying for nonchalant and failing by a mile. The sound squeaked in his throat and he covered it with a cough, dropping his eyes to the side.

Sherlock craned his head to try and recapture their connection. “You know I would be willing, er, glad to… talk… with you about anything you might need, yes?” He blew out a frustrated breath when John did not look at him. “I want to help,” he offered, again with that careful, tentative note in his voice that made John’s churning belly clench with guilt.

John turned away and sat down on the bed, gaze firmly on his feet. _I can’t look at him right now, he’ll see, he’ll know. What would he do then?_ “I know you do, Sherlock. Just, not this time.”

John pushed his trainers off his feet, uncaring of flattening the heels or the tied laces. He scooted back up to the headboard and arranged the pillows behind him. His knee knocked against a hard object, and he fished his mobile out from under the folds of blanket where it had been hidden. His thumb brushed the screen, which lit up with increasingly urgent messages from Sherlock, and finished with one from Lestrade, asking him to have Sherlock check in if he got in touch with John. Seemed the consulting detective had just left the crime scene without a word to anyone. John’s guilt increased. _As much as he can, he cares about me. Maybe there’s a chance?_ He silently shook his head again. _Yeah, keep dreaming, Watson. How many times has he said sentiment is a weakness, to be absolutely avoided? I’ve lost count. No, we - I - just need to come to some accommodation, some way of coping that will never let him know._

“Looks like Lestrade wants you to call him,” John said, waggling the phone.

Sherlock said nothing, gaze still fixed on the window, or possibly John’s reflection in the window.

“Sherlock?” John prompted, “do you want to talk about the case? Finish it up?” He waggled the phone again, then realized he had a similar expression on his face to when he was trying to get Rosie to eat. He hurriedly schooled his features to a more sober expression. “Did that bloke turn out to be mafia after all?”

After another silent moment, Sherlock whirled around to pin John with an intense stare. “Why can you discuss whatever it is with Duck, but not with me?” he demanded, his voice tight and strained.

John dropped his head into his hands for a moment, then with a deep breath looked up again to answer. “Because there are some things it’s easier to talk about with a stranger.”

“What? Why? Why would that be true? Someone who knows you well would have a better chance of understanding the circumstances surrounding emotional issues.” He declared.

“And would have emotions of their own about the situation, since it was part of their lives, too,” John retorted in his most reasonable tone of voice. Sherlock’s brows drew down in denial of this assertion, and he opened his mouth to argue further.

John forestalled him with a ‘talk to the hand’ gesture. “Look, I am not going to discuss this anymore, until I’ve had a chance to think it through - thoroughly, and with the assistance of my therapist. That’s what he’s for, yeah? Let him earn his pay.” He crossed his arms over his chest and set his face implacably.

Luck was on his side. Just as Sherlock was drawing breath to continue the argument, both his and Sherlock’s phones trilled simultaneously. Sherlock startled and then snatched his phone out of a pocket, while John’s was already in his hand. They both read Lestrade’s text - John with hope for a reprieve, Sherlock with irritation stamped on his ascetic features. The message seemed to further irk him, and he scrubbed at his curls with one hand while dramatically groaning over it. “For god’s sake, Lestrade! It’s just looking at some video! How many people could possibly be in and out of those trees last night? It’s hardly Piccadilly Circus!”

John was chuckling ruefully at this display of temper. “Clearly they need expert help. Are you going to go over there?”

“I suppose I must, if we’re to catch Box of Hammers’ killer. Though it’s looking more and more like a planned hit, so they’re probably long gone by now.” Sherlock read the text again, then speared John with a piercing look, ice-blue eyes intent. “Will you tell me what’s troubling you?” came the question, sharp as a whip crack.

John barely flinched; years of familiarity with Sherlock’s interrogations serving him well. “Eventually, yes. Not yet.”

Sherlock’s face fell, and he deflated with a sigh. “Well, then.” He turned to look at the window again. “Are you… alright? Should I be concerned?” His deep baritone voice emerged unexpectedly small and tentative.

And with that, John was reminded that on a night less than two weeks ago, this man thought John would die in his arms.

His heart tugged at him remorsefully, and he slid off the bed to stand beside his friend at the window. “No, Sherlock,” he said gently. “Nothing like that. I promised I’d never let it get that bad again, and I won’t, I swear it.”

Sherlock’s reflection was blinking rapidly, turned a bit away from John. Long fingers bumped his, searching, then tangled tightly. “Thank you,” he said, so quietly as to be barely audible.

After a few silent moments, Sherlock seemed to collect himself and find the wherewithal to get moving on the case. “I’ll text. You’ll answer?” this was more command than question, and John couldn’t help but snicker.

“Yes, I’ll answer - unless I’m in session with Duck in the morning.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he headed for the door. “I’ll allow it.”

“Prat!” John called to his retreating back as he passed out of sight.

~~oOo~~

John had missed dinner in his distracted state, and found himself hungry. He wandered over to the dining area, but it was deserted; the chairs placed up on the tables to leave the floor clear for the cleaning crew who came in during third shift.

The rumbling in his stomach led him to the nurses’ station, where Nurse Savage was typing away at a computer that even John could tell was antiquated. A weathered health care veteran, she exuded a stoic calm and capable authority, even while bathed in the unflattering greenish glow of the screen. She grumbled under her breath as she squinted at what she had written, then banged out another word or two before looking up inquiringly.

“Dr Watson, is everything all right?” she asked.

John offered her a grateful smile. “I did have a question, but first I wanted to say thanks for helping Sherlock earlier. I’m sure it wasn’t part of your plan for the evening.”

The woman snorted inelegantly. “Not even close, but it was no trouble - well, not too much anyway.”

John’s smile turned wry. “My friend can be plenty of trouble all by himself, even when he’s not having a tantrum.”

Nurse Savage tilted her head, considering. “He was really worried about you,” she began, “I could tell - when he first showed up here at the desk, he was white as a sheet. Thought he might pass out, even, after we said we didn’t know you weren’t in your room. ‘Course, his color came back right quick after he started shouting at Jeremy, poor lad.” She snorted again. “But your friend, he was frantic to find something telling him where you’d gone; assuming the worst, I reckon.” She snapped her mouth shut and colored faintly after that last statement, realizing she may have gone too far.

John gasped a breath, and held it, then cut her some slack. He knew how it was, working with patients day in and day out; after awhile all you saw was the diagnosis, sometimes. “You’ve seen my file, I expect. So you know he had reason to worry. But it’s alright, he and I had a talk after everyone cleared out, and I think it’ll be better now.”

“Good to hear it. It wrung my heart to see him so scared.” She sighed. “Well, good luck to you both, Doctor. Now, you said you had a question?”

John looked sheepishly off to one side. “Er, yeah. In all the excitement, I seem to have missed dinner, and I’m starving. Is there anywhere I could get a snack?”

Nurse Savage gave him a level stare. “So, he didn’t sneak in Chinese takeout this time, hmm?”

John felt the tips of his ears heat with color. “Ah, you knew about that, eh?”

She looked at him gravely. “We do empty the bins in your room, Dr Watson.”

John looked down and scuffed a slipper against the floor, embarrassment keeping him from pressing his question. “I’ll just head back there, then.”

“Not to worry, Doctor. You can make a cuppa and some toast in the break room, how does that sound?” The nurse had an unexpectedly impish smile on her severe face, and John realized she had been taking the piss. “But no more deliveries, hmm? I had to turn back four patients who were following their noses to join your little dinner party the other night.” She shook a finger at him.

John laughed outright. “Nurse Savage, we don’t deserve you.” He grinned at her. “I could murder some toast right now. Where should I go?”

A little later, having had a pleasant cup of tea and two slices of toast with jam, John was sitting on his own bed reading back over the case details Sherlock had sent him and the increasingly urgent text messages that had followed while he was out running. He could follow Sherlock’s rising concern easily, and guilt roiled in his gut. True, Sherlock had jumped to the worst possible conclusion without assessing the facts - which was quite unlike him, actually - but John couldn’t blame him for it. In the weeks after the Culverton Smith case, John had been hyper-vigilant about Sherlock’s state, too - demanding to see his arms to look for track marks, checking his eyes for constricted pupils or bloodshot whites, scrutinizing him constantly for the slightest sign of backsliding into drug use. Only after some time had passed without incident did he relax his attention back to more usual levels.

 _And then all this happened,_ John thought. _I wonder if worrying about me tempts him to use? He had said that Rosie and I were keeping him straight, in the hall before everything went wrong…_ Well, he’d just have to look carefully the next time he saw Sherlock, that’s all; that brain was too amazing to pickle with drugs.

Mental note made, John flicked a finger against his phone screen, sending the texts scrolling madly. They slowed at the first text after John had left his room, with a sliver of the photo that had shaken him so badly at the top of the screen. Just a band of color, shirt and coat and bark, with the tiniest bright triangle off center, the bottom of Sherlock’s open collar showing his pale skin.

 _Maybe it was a one-off,_ he thought hopefully. A coincidental erection to the time he was looking at the picture, and not about Sherlock at all. With a mixture of anticipation and dread, John dragged his finger downward, bringing the photo into full view. He tapped it to make it fill the screen, so small to have so much impact. Again his eyes were drawn to the open collar, the defined jaw, the tiny moles on fair skin. Again his breath caught, struck by the unexpected clench of want in his belly - so new, so frightening in its implications. But there all the same. _Gonna have to face up to this one, Watson. You’re not as straight as you thought you were._

He jabbed the button, and his phone went dark with a muted click. A glance at the clock on the wall told him it was late, so he plugged the device in to charge, and went though his nightly routine to try and calm his racing mind enough to get to sleep. Teeth flossed, face washed, pajamas on, John settled into bed and pulled the covers up to his chin against the slightly too-cold room. _I’ll be glad to be out of bloody hospital tomorrow, they never get the temperature right, and the blankets are so thin!_   With a curmudgeonly grunt, he heaved up and pounded his flabby pillow into a more acceptable state, then flopped back down to try to drift off.

In the darkness of his the quiet room, the image that had caused all tonight’s trouble seemed seared on the inside of his eyelids. John slowed his breathing and did his level best to concentrate on something - anything - else, but it was like being back in his psychology lecture in uni, talking about ironic process theory and being told not to think of a pink elephant. Eventually the only thing he could think about was that image, and how it had made him feel. With a groan, he turned onto his side in the bed and just gave into it; picturing the photo, and moving on to other times he had ignored - repressed, Duck would likely say - flashes of appreciation for his friend’s aesthetic impact. There were… a lot. Really, a surprising amount, for someone who up to a few hours ago had been convinced he had no interest in men whatsoever. The burnished mahogany curls; the lean body, tall and imposing one moment, and limp and languid the next; that bloody swanlike neck; the plush Cupid’s-bow lips; and the eyes - those indescribable eyes: tilted, feline, flashing with color like an opal as a result of changes in the light or their owner’s mood.

It was as if a dam had burst in his mind, flooding him with visual snapshots of his friend and moving on to fill in all the little spaces left over with smells _(tobacco smoke from a stolen cigarette, that bloody posh shampoo he uses, cologne like a spicy forest)_ and more fleeting but equally potent, kinesthetic impressions (lean muscles under his hands during recent hugs, huge hand clasping his own so carefully, sleeping head laid on his hospital bed while silken curls slipped around his fingers) that made goosebumps break out across his skin and spurred an inevitable tumescence.

John resolutely parked his hands beneath his pillow after he caught himself ghosting a hand over his crotch, barely stroking while his mind was full of Sherlock. It felt wrong, disrespectful in a way that his wank fantasies about his other crushes never had; he’d positively chapped himself more than once when he was focused on a woman in ‘that way,’ though those relationships had been nowhere near as deep or complicated as his one with Sherlock. This revelation was too huge, at this early stage, to sully it with mere physical release. Though his groin protested, vehemently, with an uncomfortable refusal to subside even when he got up to get a drink of water in hopes of shaking his preoccupation.

Returning to bed, John settled on his back, palms cupping his skull firmly, eyes closed. He did his best to think about Bag of Hammers and his probable mafia-connected murder. After a while, it seemed to work, and he pondered a hitman _(not necessarily always a man, as we know much too well… so, hitwoman? Hitperson? Christ, bloody assassin, Watson. For fuck’s sake.)_  Who used a biblical weapon to bring down such a physically large person. A grain of truth in every legend…

John slipped into sleep.

Blurry impressions of smooth skin, so warm under his hands threaded through his slumber; solid, firm muscle flexing in his grasp, then moving to stroke him intimately. _I’m dreaming;_ his dream-self strained into the touch shamelessly, chasing the release he had denied himself while awake. A well-known voice rumbled unintelligible reverences into his ear, urging him on. _Yes,_ the voice murmured, _so good…_ John felt a prickle on the back of his neck that drew his focus away from the pleasurable sounds and sensations of his dream lover.

Like a roll of thunder from far away, another voice spoke; coming closer, overriding the intimate urgency with dread. “Coming to your sister’s rescue, eh, Johnny? Well there ain’t no queer Watsons, you hear me? No child of mine’ll be a faggot, if I’ve got to get a dozen of my mates to give ‘er what she needs to get straightened out, that’s my right as her father!”

John balled his fists, feeling surprisingly small and thin in his fourteen year old body full of adult fear and rage. “Leave her alone, Da!” He yelped when his father, much faster in the dream than he had been in real life, tried to snatch at his sister who cowered against the wall behind John, and when thwarted, grasped his son’s wrist in a grip that felt like iron. Dream-John struggled and writhed, knowing what was coming, his mind screaming at him to use the training he had to free himself and take down his attacker, but in vain. Just as he had when John was a child, his father got him pushed with his face to the wall, arm twisted up behind his back; the fetid smell of his breath washed over John in a cloud of stale alcohol and onions. “Always gotta be sticking your nose in, eh, John? Sticking your neck out for your sister, even when she’s a fucking slag, a god-damned carpet-muncher? Why’s that, then, Johnny? You one too? Are you a fucking arse bandit, John? A fairy after all? Oi! Where d’you think YOU’RE going!”

To one side, the shadowy dream form of John’s sister made a break for the hallway, to escape or call the cops or something else, John had never asked. And just as had happened in life, John’s father lunged to grab for her without releasing John’s twisted arm, yanking it hard. The pain of his shoulder popping out of the socket was sudden and blinding -

\- And enough to wake him up. His shoulder screamed at him, cramped and throbbing, and he stifled a shout by clenching his jaw until his teeth creaked. Then be began the ritual breathing of deep inhales through his nose, followed by long, steady exhales through his mouth, trying to blow out the leaden terror in his belly.

That was the night, that was the _fight,_ that altered John’s perception of his father forever. Not a man any longer, but a monster who would threaten his daughter with gang rape and leave his son on the floor, passed out from the pain of his dislocated shoulder.

Afterward, he hadn’t thought much about the actual words his father had said; just remembered the fear, and the threat to Harry, and the pain, so overwhelming to his young body. He’d certainly had worse since then, but the pain and the emotional anguish loomed large in his recollection as the single most terrifying moment in his life until he went to Afghanistan. _And he’d accused me of being queer, too. I had forgotten that. Was that what Duck was hinting about? That I’ve internalized a fear of being… not straight… because Da would have gone spare? Bad enough to have a lesbian daughter, but to have a gay son? He’d have beat me black and blue for it - killed me, maybe, for not being his kind of ‘real man.’_

And now… now his father was long dead. John had been places; seen and done and lived through things that would have made that bastard shit himself with fear. What right did a person long dead have to dictate John’s life now? How dare he, that piss-poor excuse for a father - for a man - still be messing with John’s mind after all these years? Anger rose in John’s throat and he pushed down the urge to yell obscenities or punch something. Such demonstrations wouldn’t help him now, in the middle of the night with the nursing staff just around the corner; they’d only get him held here in the facility until the staff felt he was more stable.

Instead, John flipped to his stomach, put his face in the pillow and yelled with all his might. The pillow might be thin, but it muffled his outburst well enough. Afterward, he rolled back over and laid in the bed, panting, the back of his head and neck warm with the heat of his shouted breaths. His measured breathing calmed him slowly, and eventually his simmering resentment and anger bled away, back into restless sleep.

~~oOo~~

“Fucking, bloody - goddammit!” John gasped as he dropped to a walk from the mild lope they had been maintaining along the garden path. He pressed his hands to his lower back, urging his tight muscles to allow him to suck in the wheezing breaths he felt he desperately needed. “I don’t think this is going to work today, Duck.”

Duck trotted back to John, looking him over critically. “Yeah, I reckon you’re off your game, mate,” he said calmly. “Why don’t we head back to my office and stretch, and if you’re anxious for more work, we can do a few asanas.” He clapped John on the shoulder and grinned a little bit too wide at the prospect of indulging in some yoga. John groaned, and Duck snickered at his antics. “Come on now, don’t be like that,” he continued, prodding John along the path toward the turn off that led back to the facility, “a lot of these poses build muscle along with stretching you out, you know that.”

John rolled his eyes. “It’s not the stretching I mind; it’s the standing on one leg while all pretzeled up!” Duck snorted a short laugh at that, and John blew out a sigh. He knew Duck would not be swayed, and that he’d feel a right tit stretching his arms up and balancing on one leg like some Swan Lake ballerina. However, that one time he’d achieved the position Duck was trying to show him (”you’ll like this one - it’s called ‘Warrior One’”) and held it for more than a moment - his adductors and rectus femoris quivering in his thighs, head tilted back, arms wobbling but pointed to the ceiling - he had felt the way his body had settled into the pose and had experienced a taste of the strength of it. He could understand why Duck enthused about yoga so much after that - though he wasn’t sure how much more of it he wanted to do.

As they neared the office, John’s steps slowed with his reluctance to talk about why he was so out of sorts this morning. He should be happy, excited that he'd get to go home today, and he could hardly think that far.

Duck waited for him at the door to the office, head tilted to one side as he stood and observed John’s dawdling. “I suppose I should have said, right at the start,” he remarked as they went in, “that sometimes folks don’t want to talk. Don’t want to move, or lift, or whatever. Just aren’t feeling it when we have a session planned. And I get that way myself, sometimes, too.” He strode over to get their glasses of water, as tall as always despite their light workout. “But I also think it’s worthwhile to at least show up on those days. You know what I’ve said; I’m not going to make you talk about your feelings if you don’t want to. But I do think there might be something useful to learn from days like this, so why don’t we start there while we do our basic stretches and give Warrior Two a try?” He waggled his bushy eyebrows at the mention of the yoga pose. John cracked a weak smile of acknowledgment and sipped at his glass.

They moved through their stretches without further speaking, John now familiar with the routine that Duck preferred. When Duck sat to swap out his prosthetic since he had said the peg-style leg was better for yoga, John put down a pair of mats for them to stand on. He had a momentary feeling of surprised unreality - he, John Watson, doctor-soldier-blokey-bloke, was going to do yoga with a 50-something, male, amputee athlete who could kick his arse around a track any day of the week. _How’s that grab you, Da, hmm? Spinning in your grave yet?_ He shook his head clear of the grim thoughts, then attended to Duck’s instructions and attempted to put himself into the same position his counselor was assuming with ease. This position felt more natural than the other ones he’d tried so far, although it was still hell on the muscles in the front of his thighs, and he enjoyed lengthening his gaze to sight beyond the tips of his fingers at the end of his arms, held straight out, forward and behind him.

Duck let out a long, sighing breath as they held the pose, then casually asked, “so, how was your last night here?”

John wobbled noticeably in his posture. “Er, fine, I guess.” He resettled himself in the stance again, then sighed and amended his statement, “actually, pretty rubbish. I didn’t sleep well after I had a sort of… well, not a fight, but not the easiest conversation with Sherlock.”

Duck hmmm’ed and reset them in the pose on the other side; John’s left thigh was grateful for the respite but his right was already shuddering. _Damn that leg,_ John thought, _seems like it’s never been quite right after I came home._

After a few more minutes, Duck announced “I think we can be done with the performance portion of the morning. Come sit down.”

He and John relaxed into their usual places, and Duck raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “So, you didn’t sleep well? Does that happen often?”

John sighed. “Often enough,” he acknowledged, “I have nightmares, probably more often than is typical. If I’m upset, it’s a struggle to fall asleep.”

“And were you upset?”

“Sort of. Not really. But not… calm, either.”

“You mentioned a conversation with Sherlock?”

“Yeah, he…” John scratched his eyebrow with a fingernail, then proceeded to tell Duck about Sherlock’s histrionics at not finding John in his room after sending several texts. John dropped his face into his hands and groaned as the words popped out. “Oh, bollocks - I wasn’t supposed to tell you I had my phone. Just forget you heard that part.”

Duck laughed delightedly, and waved away the issue. “If I had a pound for every patient who smuggled a phone in here, I could retire tomorrow a rich man. As long as it hasn’t adversely impacted your recovery - and I’d say it has not - it’s no skin off my nose. Now, why weren’t you in your room, if you were expecting Sherlock to visit?”

“Er, I wasn’t expecting him. He was working a case, and was bouncing ideas off me with texts. I had been going back and forth with him pretty steadily, but then there was a lull while he did something or other, and during the lull, I-” John paused as he tried to come up with a different phrase than _'threw a wobbler when I got a boner looking at a picture of my male best friend.'_   He coughed to cover the hesitation and Duck raised a droll eyebrow.

“Earlier that day, I had been thinking about… the talk we had, you know, about James, and my father, and his stupid fucking attitude about Harry. I told you he dislocated my shoulder when I took her side during a fight when she came out - but what I hadn’t really thought about was that he’d tried it on with me, too, while he was ranting.” John felt the need to move a bit, get some distance from Duck’s wise eyes while he stumbled through this recitation of the revelation he had had, that his understanding of himself might be so skewed. So he stood and paced the carpeted area where they stretched, hands alternately scrubbing through his hair, rubbing over his cheeks, or gesticulating with his distress. “Bastard asked if I was one too - an ‘arse bandit;’ a fairy, queer, whatever. And after that I had never allowed myself to even consider the possibility that I might,” John scrubbed at the back of his neck as he struggled to find words, “feel… for a… a man. Da would’ve killed me, if he thought I might be…” He shook off the difficult memory.

“So, I did it. Shoveled some fucking shit,” he said roughly and shot Duck a hard look. “Like we said, you and me. I set myself to consider whether I could think of a time, of a man, who I had wanted like I wanted my women lovers - possessive, physical, hot and greedy, right? And I couldn’t. I couldn’t think of a time that I had wanted a man like that. But I got interrupted before I had really settled the question in my mind.” He brightened unexpectedly as a thought occurred to him, and exclaimed, “you were right about the sauna, by the way. It is really nice - I should find someplace to take a steam now and then; it’s fantastically relaxing.”

Duck blinked at the abrupt change of subject, but resumed listening intently as John shook himself and went on.

“So, it was Sherlock, of course, coming to see me with this case he’s working on, and he bursts in on me in the sauna and completely derails my thinking, and then must have given himself a touch of heat stroke by standing in there in his wool coat and clothes because he’s flushed and sweating, but god forbid he take a moment to have a drink of water. Then he gets a case and buggers off again to look the crime scene over before the rains, and we’re texting.” John realized his words have sped up with his pacing, as though by speeding the delivery he can make them easier to say. Might be working, at that. “And then there’s this lull. And I’m thinking again, about how I hadn’t finished thinking before, so I…” he scrubbed his hair especially fervently and turned to look out the window, conveniently putting Duck out of view. “I looked at some… pictures. And had - er, a, _reaction._ And it,” John hesitated, then blew out a whoosh of air trapped in his chest from his rapid words, “it surprised me. Frightened me, I think. I didn’t know what to do, what to think about it, so I thought maybe if I went for a run it would help.” He sighed mightily, trudging back to flop onto the sofa again.

“You went for another run, last night?” Duck confirmed, eyebrows arched high on his chrome-dome forehead. “No wonder you’re knackered today, especially if you didn’t sleep afterward.”

John nodded and let his head sag back against the sofa cushions.

“So, what frightened you about the pictures? Was it porn you looked at?” Duck asked baldly.

John spluttered and gaped at the man. “What? No! God, No! It was a picture of…” he could feel his cheeks heating and shut his eyes in chagrin, “of just, er, a man. Nothing indecent, or even really provocative, but it -” he bounced back up to resume his pacing. “It… got me… things… er, interested, you know.” He flailed his arms erratically, possibly indicating his groin just by accident, and widened his eyes. “And that was a pretty big thing, yeah? I mean, I’ve never, not once, thought about a man like that, and…”

He returned to the sofa yet again, deflating down to the cushions. “Look at me, Duck, I’m forty-five, a single father, a widower, and all this time I didn’t know I had the potential to feel that way. How is that possible? Did my fucking knob of an old man really do so much of a number on me that I repressed this my whole life?” John shook his head with a mirthless chuckle, throwing up his hands in disbelief. Duck opened his mouth to say something, then shut it again as John continued.

“I had a hard time coming to grips with the idea, and I thought a run might clear my head. So I went for one - only made it two laps, I’ll have you know. Came back in not having made much progress, to find Sherlock and two night nurses tearing my room apart looking for hints as to where I could have gone.”

“Really?” Duck exclaimed. “How long had you been out, d’you think?”

“Not much more than an hour; I wandered the garden a little after I ran out of steam, then chucked it all and came back inside.”

Duck hmm’ed his surprise, shaggy eyebrows climbing his shiny forehead.

“I know. Sherlock got worried when I didn’t respond to his texts - assumed I’d had a crash and was off somewhere maybe injuring myself. I was right cheesed about it until I remembered he had put his fingers down my throat to save me less than two weeks ago - fair to say, he’s allowed a few freak outs. It was a shame he had to involve the nurses, though. He is… not kind when he’s riled up.”

Duck snorted his agreement. “John, I don’t think you should be worried about having been ‘repressed your whole life,’” his air quotes used all five fingers, like goofy claws, “sexuality can be fluid. Yes, it’s possible that you had been avoiding this realization; people do successfully repress things for remarkably long times sometimes. But it’s also possible that you’re almost entirely oriented toward women and there’s just one or two men out there who you might ever be attracted to, and it’s taken this long to meet them or to recognize that potential. So, what do you want to do about it?”

John blinked and frowned. “Do? What is there to do?”

“Do you want to explore these feelings more completely? Do you want to pursue something with this man?”

“Hang on, I never said there was a particular man!” John backpedaled frantically, glowering.

Duck regarded him calmly from under his bushy brows. “But there is, isn’t there?” His face mirrored only open curiosity and interested acceptance.

John’s mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, then he dropped his head into his hands. “Yes,” he said. The word emerged small and defeated from behind his palms.

“John, it’s alright,” Duck soothed, his ragged voice breathy and soft. “You don’t have to decide now. You don’t have to do anything now, other than absorb this realization about yourself.”

“I just… I don’t see how this will help me be better at coping with my life, yeah?” John scrubbed at his face with his hands, then wiped his damp palms on his thighs. “I mean, it will just complicate my relationship with Sh-” he coughed, then cleared his throat, “er, him, if I’m distracted by this all of a sudden.” John wondered if his face was actually glowing with the heat of his blush; it certainly felt like it.

“At the very least, it will help you understand your reactions, John. Maybe nothing will come of it, other than you’ll know something new about yourself. Maybe you’ll recognize where some of the impulses that have worried you before are coming from. That can only be a good thing, right?” Duck leaned back in his chair, and laced his fingers together in front of his bristly chin. “And,” he said carefully, from behind the shelter of his hands, “perhaps you’ll see some new things about this person,” he raised a wry eyebrow, “that will surprise you.”

The room fell silent. Duck relaxed serenely in his chair while John hunched over, willing himself not to start blubbering or giggling like a silly twat. Eventually the urge passed, and he leaned back against the cushions once more, heaving out a lengthy sigh.

“So,” Duck said after a moment, “let’s get you discharged and back out in the world again, what do you say?”

John groaned loudly. “Fuck. Yeah, alright, no rest for the bloody weary, fine.” He pinned Duck with a grouchy stare. “Can I at least have a doctor’s note requiring afternoon naps? I think I could use a few of those.”

“Works for me,” Duck replied gamely, eyes crinkled with good humor. “Seems about right, old man like you. I can prescribe a soup diet, too, if your dentures are paining you.”

John instinctively flipped the bird with both hands, and Duck’s ravaged laughter dispelled the last of John’s awkwardness. He perked up to discuss his release from the facility with renewed, though still reluctant, interest.

~~oOo~~

 _It’s surprisingly easy to be let out of here,_ thought John, _given the reason I was brought in._

His feet felt unexpectedly constricted in the thick-soled, brown leather oxfords (his favorites, actually) that Sherlock had brought him to wear home, along with a set of his regular clothes. The jeans and button-down felt weirdly snug as well, after two weeks of loose-fitting hospital gowns, pajamas and exercise clothes. John had been resigned to trekking home in his track pants and trainers, since that was what was here, but Sherlock had arrived with all he would need to dress and laid it out on the bed while he was in session with Duck.

Sherlock’s thoughtfulness had made John’s throat tighten a little when he arrived back in his room, but when Sherlock approached for a now-customary hug, John froze with panicked certainty that his inconvenient feelings would somehow communicate themselves through touch. Instead he had thanked his friend somewhat stiffly and hurriedly stepped into the loo to change and splash a little water on his face, shutting Sherlock and the confused frown on his lean face on the other side of the door.

Once he was changed, he marched back out to pack up this things, collecting items and methodically stowing them in his bag while Sherlock looked out the window, or possibly watched his reflection in the glass. _I’m going home now,_ he thought. The notion seemed a little unreal, to be honest. Like he had thought _I’m going to the moon now._ Just as unlikely and fanciful as that.

He surveyed the room he’d called his for the time he was here, with its wide window and sterile surfaces. After a little while, Sherlock snapped out of his brown study and occupied himself with checking the drawers one last time to make sure nothing had been left behind. John would tell him he’d already done that - he’d carefully packed socks and slippers and the note that came with them, and considered leaving a certain embarrassing Tshirt behind, then crammed it into the holdall along with pajamas and exercise clothes and all the little items he’d had given to him - but he didn’t get the chance.

“Ah-ha!” Sherlock spun with what looked like a huge black spider clutched in one hand, his face alight with triumph. “I knew you’d forget your charger!”

John smiled at him indulgently. “Actually, that one’s not mine. I found it in the back of the wardrobe the first night I was here.” He smirked. “Some other sod must’ve smuggled in a phone and then forgotten it there.”

Sherlock’s face fell into momentary petulance and he chucked the charger back into the drawer where he’d found it. He peered out the window and then began to pace. “How long-”

The door opened with a clunk of hardware, and Duck walked in with a folder crammed with paper in one hand. John was seized with a kind of breathless shock, seeing Sherlock and Duck together in one room. It hadn’t occurred to him that his therapist would come in person, but of course he would, wouldn’t he? _Oh god. Sherlock will know everything I’ve told Duck about him - he’ll read it in his shirt cuffs or something and know everything! Oh god. OhnoOhshitOhno…_

Sherlock indeed was drawn up to his full height, scrutinizing Duck with laser-like focus, eyes flicking top to toe, left to right. Duck stepped forward with his usual forthrightness, extending his hand despite the recipient’s forbidding body language. “Sherlock, I assume? It’s a pleasure to meet you. Thank you for what you’ve done for John these last few weeks, it’s been so important to his progress.”

Sherlock assumed his most dispassionate mien as Duck pumped the hand he had instinctively held out in return. Duck used both hands, his earnestness radiating from every pore. “John’s an exceptional person, and I’m glad to have gotten the chance to know him, despite the circumstances. He speaks highly of you, too. I hope we get a chance to talk sometime.”

Sherlock blinked in bemusement at his effusiveness, then shot a glance over at John, who had sunk his face in his hands, blushing to the tips of his ears. He cleared his throat. “Yes, well. Do they call you Duck because of the leg or the voice?”

John’s head shot up in alarm. “Sherlock, now…”

But Duck was croaking out his horrible, delighted laugh. “Both,” he replied. “If it walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck…” He gave a good-natured shrug, and indicated himself. “John said you didn’t pull your punches, and he wasn’t kidding, I see.”

Sherlock knitted his brows, nonplussed at Duck’s easy acceptance. John could see him analyzing, trying to figure out just what made this unusual man tick. “Better the truth than a polite fiction, or a feel-good story,” he retorted. Sherlock clearly still felt slighted that John wanted to talk about his feelings with Duck and not himself. _If you only knew, you berk, you’d run for the hills._

“Amen to that,” Duck said fervently. “I’ll take truth over bullshit every time.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, and he shifted his weight in a sort of hip-swaying posture that John knew well; it presaged the torrent of deductions that were always true, but almost never flattering. John figured he’d better step in before things got out of hand.

“Are those my discharge papers, Duck?” He stepped up beside Sherlock as he interjected, tugging the man’s sleeve in a subtle _leave it_ gesture. Duck’s eyes flashed downward for a split second, but his expression didn’t change noticeably. Sherlock took on an even more intent focus as he cogitated over every move and twitch this person, now so important to John’s well being, was making.

“Yeah, right here.” Duck stepped over to the table and opened the folder. “You’ve got about eight places to sign, and then you can pack up and clear out. You’ve got an appointment with me for a run and a talk in the morning, here, at our usual 8:30; that gonna be okay?”

“Mmm… yes,” John said absently, leaning over the folder and becoming immediately absorbed in reading the forms. He felt around on the table for a pen, never raising his eyes from the page.

Sherlock moved up beside him and handed him a biro produced from somewhere in the capacious pockets of his coat. Over John’s head, he continued to observe Duck, who allowed the scrutiny with relaxed body language and an open expression.

“You are confident that John is ready to be discharged,” Sherlock said, no hint of a question in the statement.

Duck regarded him for a moment, hearing the worry lurking behind the stony expression, then smiled serenely. “Yes. He’s going to be right as rain, just needs some time, and all the care he can get.”

Sherlock blinked rapidly for a minute, then looked down at the rounded back and silvering head bent over the table, occasionally scribbling an unintelligible signature on a page. His full lips twitched upwards, softly. He regarded Duck levelly. “I think we can manage that.”

Duck grinned. “I didn’t doubt it for an instant.”

John popped up between them, blowing out a whooshing breath and handing the pen back to Sherlock. “Well, that’s all signed, in duplicate, et cetera. What’s next?” He looked from one man to the other, surprised by the new bonhomie between them. “What?”

Both men smiled and shook hands again more cordially.

“A pleasure,” Sherlock said.

John’s eyebrows rose high. “Is it?” He looked back and forth between the two, puzzlement creasing his face.

Duck’s smile never wavered. “Yeah, definitely.” He clapped John on the shoulder and squeezed, Sherlock observing the interaction intently. “John, you’re free to go, and I’ll see you tomorrow.” He picked up the papers, looking over the signatures and shuffling them back into the folder as John and Sherlock picked up John’s things and headed for the hallway.

Sherlock paused in the doorway, blocking John’s exit as he looked back. “How long?” He asked tersely, fixing Duck with a sharp stare one last time.

Duck raised his eyebrows in enquiry, “how long what?”

“Since your dog had to be put down.”

Duck pursed his lips before answering, nodding his head slowly. “About fifteen months.”

“Long enough, don’t you think?” Sherlock said, then was out the door in a swirl of coattails and curls. “Come along, John!” echoed from the corridor.

Duck and John exchanged a look - John’s rueful, Duck’s thoughtful. “Yeah,” John said. “He’s always like that.”

He left the room chuckling, and hurried to catch up his friend.

~~oOo~~

John’s arrival back at his flat was almost anticlimactic. They parked in his reserved space and headed up to the front door, just as they’d done a hundred times before. It didn’t feel the same, though; so much had happened in the short weeks he’d been away. _I live here? Really?_

They piled into the foyer and hung up their coats, dropping John’s bags by the stairs. The commotion attracted Amina, who met them in the sitting room. Sherlock hovered watchfully and John stood awkwardly, unsure of how to greet the person who had cared for his daughter while he was unable to do so. Amina had no such compunctions - she strode forward and caught a surprised John in a fierce hug. “Welcome home, ye great numpty. It’s too quiet around here without you,” she said, “let me make us a cuppa while you get yourself sorted. Rosie’s in the kitchen, making a mess of her lunch as usual.”

John nodded, and turned to slip off his shoes, then headed into the kitchen to see Rosie. There she was, ensconced in her highchair, a decimated bowl of pasta and soft carrots spread out on the tray in front of her. She was whacking her spoon against the surface and shrieking for some reason of her own, and John blinked at the cacophony. “Hey now, Rosie,” he soothed, “what’s all this fuss?”  


Rosie turned at the sound of his voice and her face lit up excitedly. “Da!” she crowed, “Da! Da! Da-da-dada!” Each syllable was punctuated with a whack of the spoon. John stood, slack-jawed and frozen, staring at this force of nature who, it seemed, had just called him Dada for the first time.

A strong hand squeezed his shoulder, and he looked over to see Sherlock showing his soft, barely-there smile, pale eyes shining. “She missed you, I think.”

John gazed a moment longer, caught by the beauty of the understated expression on his friend’s face. A particularly loud bang of spoon against tray snapped him out of it, and he turned to gather his child out of the chair. “Yes, it’s me, lovey. Have you been good for Amina and Sherlock while I was away?” He picked her up and clasped her close, uncaring of the bits of food stuck to her clothes. Rosie grinned widely and made a grab for John’s nose, as she always did when he picked her up. He laughed and peppered loud smacking kisses on her pink cheeks.

It felt good to have her little body in his arms again; in their kitchen, without the strangeness of a visit to a facility, without the expectation of separation when their time was up. If he wanted, he could carry her around all day. _Well, if she’d stand for that,_ he thought as she finished patting and squishing his face with her chubby hands and then turned her attention back to her lunch, leaning precariously over to grab for a bright carrot morsel and squawking when she couldn’t reach. “Alright then, I can see what’s more important to you, my hungry little rascal.” He put her back into her chair, then sank into one of the kitchen chairs himself and accepted a mug of tea from Amina with a smile and a sigh.

They spent a convivial half hour drinking tea around the table while Rosie played with her food, eventually cramming most of it in her mouth. Amina caught John up on the neighborhood gossip, Rosie’s recent antics, and the results of her latest checkup, which had occurred earlier that week. “An’ she’s up to date on her vaccinations; I’ve got th’ paperwork in her folder when you want to look it over. She landed solid in the 49th percentile for weight and height, so no worries there.” Amina chucked her charge gently on the chin. “That’s our perfectly average wee monster now, innit? Grrr!”

Rosie giggled and grinned as Amina growled charmingly at her. Once again, John considered how lucky he was that she had come into their lives when she did. “You’ve done wonderfully, Amina. Thank you,” he said, throat unexpectedly tightening. “And… and I’m sorry that…”

“Now, John, there’s nothin’ t’apologize for. Your girl here is a pure delight to watch, and I’m happy to do it. We’ve become friends, you an’ I, haven’t we? Friends help out.” She chucked John on the shoulder, not at all as gently as she had Rosie; he rubbed the spot absently. “And it’s what you pay me for, so I come out ahead, don’t I?” She laughed musically, eyes sparkling.

John recovered himself in the face of her mirth. “Well, you can expect a nice bonus at Christmas, then,” he snarked. “Maybe a ham.” He well knew Amina was an ardent vegetarian, and she made to cuff his shoulder again - which John dodged, twisting and bumping Sherlock. “Hey now, keep that up and it’ll be a box of steaks.”

Sherlock had remained quiet through this exchange, and John turned to him still smiling. “And a ham for you too, Sherlock.”

His friend’s ascetic face remained stony as he regarded the two adults at the table. “I’d prefer a whole pig, John - I could do ballistics experiments with it.” Amina’s expression went a little glassy at this, and John strove to salvage the relaxed vibe of their conversation.

“More fun with watermelons, I’d expect,” he countered, and looked back over to Amina, who snickered into her mug. He breathed a sigh of relief, and pushed away from the table. “Well, thank you for the tea. Are you all set for the afternoon with this one?” He stroked a hand over Rosie’s fair head, nodding when she assured him they were fine; planning a visit to the park later, if he wanted to come along?

“I’d like that. I’ll go put my things away then.” John headed out of the kitchen, stopping to grab his duffel on the way to his room. Sherlock paced silent and close at his heels as he approached the bedroom, his own steps slowing as he remembered what had happened the last time he’d been in there. A sense of heavy reluctance swept through him as he gingerly opened the door, braced for a sensory reliving of the misery of those dreadful events.

Instead, the room looked… different. Brighter. Certainly tidier. The air held a whiff of lemony cleaning product. John walked in, then spun himself around to look at the whole room. His brow furrowed with puzzlement as he tried to suss out the differences. “What’s…” he began, just as Sherlock cleared his throat hesitantly.

“Your bedspread was, er, not entirely salvageable, nor was the throw rug in here,” Sherlock provided from the doorway. John looked back at him, and was surprised to see a sheepish look on his face. It seemed so foreign to his usually autocratic manner. “Amina cleaned up, and I ordered replacements. When they arrived, we realized the draperies Mary had installed would not work with them, so we took them down and put in pull-shades.” He regarded John from under his fringe. “We stored the draperies in the closet, in case you wanted them back?”

John turned to take in the room again; it really was rather nice in here, and held nothing of the dark heaviness he associated with that terrible night. The thick, new bedspread was smooth cotton in alternating stripes of paler and deeper blue, and he saw a hint of navy sheets peeking out from a corner. The new rug matched, in a complicated geometric pattern of caramel brown and dark sapphire. The blinds were Venetian-style but with wide, blond wood slats; currently wound open and letting in the early afternoon light, but he could see they would block the light successfully if he needed it. Everything harmonized with the light wood tones of his bureau and nightstand, and the darker wood of his headboard.

“This is - yeah.” John scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “This is really nice, Sherlock. Thank you.” He caught himself just as he began to move; he very much wanted to hug his friend in that moment, both in gratitude for the gesture, and because the faint blush and uncertain expression on his friend’s face was so appealing. _Bad idea, Watson, if you want to get past your attraction. Best leave it._

Instead, he nodded gratefully and smiled, then dropped his bag on the bed and unzipped it. The reflection in the mirror over his bureau showed him Sherlock’s progression from anticipatory straightening to faint… was that disappointment? Which was swiftly subsumed into his usual impassive mask. “Yes, well - I’m glad you like it, though I’m sorry if you’re upset we had to remove Mary’s things.”

John considered it. Was he? Actually, no - his feelings about his dead wife were so tangled in anger and confusion and remorse that it felt good, freeing, to have a new flavor in the room where he slept. “No, it’s… good. A fresh start.” He pulled his dirty exercise clothes from the bag and tossed them in the hamper in the corner.

“I thought so, too.”

“Well,” John said, pitching his duffel into the closet to land where it would, “let’s go see Rosie, hmm?” Sherlock remained where he was, looking intently at John as he crossed toward the exit. John stopped a few paces before he would have to push past, and eyed the tall form wryly. “Blocking the doorway, Sherlock,” he gestured for his friend to precede him from the room.

Sherlock unexpectedly grasped John’s outstretched hand, lacing their fingers together. John instinctively tensed and looked away, body stiff and mind apprehensively struggling to come up with a reason to withdraw that wasn’t the _Oh god I can’t hold your hand you’ll know I want you_ that was scurrying through his brain like a panicked rodent. In the end, he just let go as gently as he could, and sighed as he looked up at his friend.

“Rosie, then, Sherlock?” John knew his expression must be transparent to the most perceptive man he’d ever known; _leave it, please, just leave it._ And miraculously, Sherlock did leave it.

“Right,” he said, his voice sounding somewhat strangled. He coughed and tried again. “Right, Rosie. She must be done with lunch by now.”

They headed back to the kitchen, John much subdued, Sherlock carefully inscrutable.

When his mobile went off a half hour later, a gleeful Sherlock declared a case was on, and he was off out to tackle it immediately. When John said he’d stay with Rosie and Amina, he received a disbelieving stare; at Amina’s snort it transfered to her with a narrow-eyed consideration. “Well, be dull if you must, far be it for me to stand in the way.” He whirled and headed for the door, his brusque “I’ll text!” echoing back just before the sound of the door closing.

John frowned. What was all that about? Was he figuring out something was up with John? Was he figuring out  _what_  was up with John? _Please god, not that. Not until I can lock it down._

Amina watched Sherlock go with a twinkle in her eye and a good-natured sniff. “Won’t be long until it’ll be both of you heading out again, eh?”

John shot her a weak smile. “Yep, likely. I’m not really up for much today, though. It’s already been a full day.”

~~oOo~~

They spent the afternoon quietly, walking to the park, then John playing with Rosie until her afternoon nap time, then having a lie-down himself while she slept. Amina caught him up in bits and pieces on the domestic news as the thoughts occurred to her, but their time was spent in companionable silence just as often. She didn’t fuss over him or hover when he was with Rosie, just went about her day without undue drama. Once again, John was fervently grateful that Amina had come into their lives; her down-to-earth attitude and soothing presence a balm to his worries that people in his life would treat him like glass - at least in his own home, he could slip back into his life without fuss and get on with the business of getting better.

They made dinner together as they often had; John doing the cooking parts and Amina the chopping. “I cook jes’ fine,” she had said about a week after she’d moved in, “but I’d much rather leave it to those who enjoy it when I can. I make up for it by being a bloody smashing prep cook and dishwasher, mind you, so no worries I won’t pull my weight!”

John rather enjoyed the cooking, and hated doing the washing up, so it all worked out.

Tonight, as they started in on their ravioli Alfredo and green salads, John stammered out some of the gratitude he’d been feeling since he’d arrived home. “Amina, I wanted to thank you, for all you’ve done while I was…” He cleared his throat and took a sip of wine to moisten his unexpectedly dry mouth. “Well. Rosie and I would have been in real trouble if you hadn’t come along.”

Amina swatted him on the shoulder, then turned to scoop Rosie another spoonful of mashed sweet potato. “I’ve already said I was glad to do it, and I’d be glad anytime, though I’m sure it won’t be needed,” she said this with certainty, and John smiled, relieved yet again.

“Not if I can help it, it won’t. Actually, that’s something I should talk with you about,” John described his appointment schedule for the next little while, that he’d be out in the mornings to see Duck and get back into training. Amina nodded and smiled wide at that; seemed she approved of Duck’s approach.

“And, my therapist suggested that I try out a few different things to see if some type of training catches my fancy. I had mentioned that you teach Aikido, and he suggested I take a few classes with you to see if I liked it.”

Amina’s eyes had widened with excitement as he talked; now she clapped her hands together and said “I know just the class for you! Meets in the afternoon, Wednesday and Saturday, but you don’t have to go twice a week unless you want to. When do you want to start?” Her enthusiasm was catching, overpowering his trepidation with ease.

“Can I just show up and start? Or is there a cycle that I have to wait for?”

“Just show up. You’ll get the hang of it soon enough. It’s the ‘gentle’ class, good for beginners and those who need to take it easy. I’ll warn you though - there’s a pair of octogenarians in the class who will whip your arse for you!” She laughed merrily. “They’ve been coming for years, but the slower pace works for them.”

“I’ll start on Saturday, then.”

“Brilliant!”

Well then, one more thing to report to Duck in the morning. _Do I get a sweetie?_ He smiled. _Actually, I’ve bloody well earned some sweets!_

John stood and rubbed his hands together. “Now that’s settled, who wants some ice cream?”

He headed for the freezer surrounded by the happy sounds of enthusiastic agreement.

~~oOo~~

The next day, John drove to the facility for his 8:30 appointment, and ran with Duck with little difficulty. Three laps passed smoothly, stretches felt good, and tall glasses of water went down easily.

“So, that was Sherlock,” Duck began, once they had sat down in their usual places. “He’s taller than I imagined, actually.”

John snickered. “A bloody beanpole in a Belstaff coat, that’s him,” he agreed.

“I think you’re right, what you said early on in here - he really cares about you,” Duck let the sentence trail off.

After a beat of silence, John agreed. “Well, yeah. He’s my best friend.”

“And you’re his.”

“And I’m his.”

“And that’s enough?”

John frowned. “What?”

“It’s enough to be his best friend?” Duck asked with carefully mild curiosity, propping his chin on his curled fists which were braced on his knees.

John’s face reflected his confusion. “Of course,” he cleared his throat. “’Course it is. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“You haven’t any other strong attachments in your life, at least that you’ve talked about.”

“I suppose that’s true…”

“Do you want them?” Duck persisted. “Other friends, I mean. Or something more… intimate, maybe?”

“Doesn’t everyone?” John scowled at him. Was he so obvious, that Duck was able to pick up on his churning confusion about his newly discovered feelings? _Of course, it’s not like you’re talking about anyone else but Sherlock in your life, and you did admit to having feelings for someone. Probably not a big leap. Fuckity fuck, Watson, you’re a giddy teenager after all._

“Most people believe that’s how it has to go, but it’s not a requirement for everybody.”

“Well, it’s not something I’m giving much thought to at the moment. A few other things on my mind, y’know?” John tried for wry, but it came out rather tentative.

“Not arguing with you there, mate,” Duck replied, then took pity on John’s stewing discomfort and adroitly changed the subject.

John described his first day home, the changes Amina and Sherlock had made in his room and how nice it had been to sleep on the crisp sheets. “I probably should have done that myself, ages ago; the room is a whole new place,” John confessed. “After everything Mary and I went through, I feel like I can finally put her behind me. And all it took was a rug and a duvet.” He shook his head disbelievingly.

“And you being ready to let her go,” Duck remarked pointedly.

John sat silently for a minute. “Yeah, I guess I am. She brought me Rosie, which - god - I’m amazed at every day. But our relationship was pretty crap and I don’t know how long it would have lasted, if she’d lived. Christ - her dying like that, in my arms, I couldn’t even treat her, I was so shocked. I’ve helped loads of people with gunshot wounds; soldiers I lived with day in and day out, even Sherlock when Mary shot him, and every time I was able to push the personal aside to do what had to be done. With her, all I could think was ‘So this is it? It’s ending like this?’ I froze, Duck, just watched as she slipped away.” John hadn’t noticed the tears starting, but he felt them, tickling as they slid over his cheeks. He wiped them away savagely and dropped his head into his hands. “I could have at least tried to save her - why didn’t I?”

“I don’t know, John. Why do you think?”

John scrubbed at his face and looked up, “I…,” his mobile features twisted with remembered anguish. “I thought it was a trick, at least at first. She’d lied and lied, Duck. I never knew what was true with her. Didn’t even know her right name, just the one she’d put on when I met her. Christ,” he scoffed, “she said she’d named Rosie after herself, but was that even true? There’s not really any way to know for sure, now.”

“You’re not wrong, John. But let me ask you - does it really matter? Now, today - does that experience matter anymore, to the life you’ll be living going forward?”

John furrowed his brow in profound thought. _What does it matter now, what I knew or didn’t know?_ “Round and round the garden, like a teddy bear,” he mused under his breath, then spoke more loudly. “Rosie will want to know about her mother,” he suggested.

“You can tell her what you know, can’t you?”

“There might be medical considerations - breast cancer and the like.”

“That’s true. I suppose you could have her genetics tested, if you’re really concerned.” Duck seemed to think it a small thing, if his offhand tone was anything to go by.

“Mary could have enemies who would come for us.”

Duck smiled. “And that’s different from you and Sherlock, how?”

John frowned in thought. “I guess you’ve got it all figured out, then,” he groused, “don’t you?”

“No, John. Just y’know - check your assumptions. If you let the past be really in the past, you’ll free up your mind for the future. Nothing bogging you down, holding you back from…” Duck trailed off, picking up his glass of water for a long draft, then sat back in his chair.

From what? John’s brow furrowed as he pondered. His mind flashed to pounding up a fire escape after flapping coattails and the indistinct figure of a fleeing suspect reaching the roof; then to a quiet night in, typing away on his laptop, spinning tales of remembered adventures. Next, Rosie’s giggle and toothless grin presented itself. _School, I’ll have to take her to school in a few years._ He’d be entirely grey-haired by then, he was sure. The scene played out in his mind: she, in trainers and jeans, fair hair in pigtails, cartoon-character backpack over her shoulders, tightly holding his hand as they approached the building. A close hug, then letting her climb the stairs and head to her classroom on her own - she’d insist after the first day, no doubt.

_‘Come on, then,’ a large hand clapped him on the shoulder, turning him away from the school and toward the soft smile gracing the lean features of his partner, who - most unfairly - the years had hardly touched. ‘She’ll be just fine, and we’ve our own work to do.’ Sherlock raised his other hand to magically summon a cab as the first slid down John’s arm to clasp his cold fingers, and they’d be off to the Yard, pressed together from shoulder to hip to knee in the seat, fingers still entwined…_

“John?” The hoarse rasp of his name snapped him rudely out of his reverie. Duck smirked at him from the chair, his glass cradled in both hands on his lap. “Where’d you go this time? You were smiling.”

John cleared his throat, flustered for a moment. “Thinking about taking Rosie to school in a few years,” he offered, carefully not mentioning the domestically settled flavor to his thoughts of Sherlock.

 _Could it really be like that? With him?_ Holding hands in a cab, kisses goodbye and hello, complaining about having to get reading glasses? Growing old? _Is that what I want?_ The thought filled him with a comforting warmth, even as his brow wrinkled skeptically.

“I was thinking about the future, I guess, now we’re sure I’ve got one.”

“And that made you smile, hmm?”

John snorted. _Fancy that, now._ “Yeah, that made me smile.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued thanks and humble, amazed appreciation for those of you who have stuck with this story despite my wretched update schedule. You have been so kind and understanding about the difficulties of RL and my own massive case of anti-inspiration. My sincere desire not to disappoint you all is the reason there is an update now, and more to come as life allows. We're getting there, my dear ones, and we'll get to the end! <3


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